Chapter Fifteen

Dripping, dripping and dripping.

I was thinking, maybe Willie was armed when Martinez and Matos shot him. He’d shot those Armenian goons just a few hours ago in Long Beach. What had he done with the gun? If it was on him then M & M were golden. But they were more than likely golden anyway. Willie was wanted for murder. Just the wrong one. So, maybe it all works out in the end, anyway. Whatever that means to anyone.  

But what about that gun?  

He’d taken two off those Salvadorean fools downtown. Okay, say he dumped the one he used at the dump. There’s still another one to account for. Another one of those MP9’s. Maybe it’s in the truck. Can’t go back up to the 7-Eleven now. Not with all that jazz going on.

I stepped down the walkway of Jackie’s building, not really knowing where I was going, but feeling the pull of her apartment. Wondering if she had any guns stashed anywhere. Thinking I’m going to need one if the plan swirling in my head was worth its weight. Some birds were singing in that big, fig tree down on Barrington, and Jackie’s door was slightly ajar. Now, you’re trying to recall too many things at once. Things that happened a long time ago. Like maybe ten or twelve hours ago. So many had come and gone. The yellow, police-tape was sagging. Walk softly and carry a big stick, some puffed-up, mustachioed, American-magnifico had said. But what do you do when you don’t have the big stick? 

You go in blindly, with not a care in the world. It’s how the plebians do it. The ones that never slurped from the money river. The ones with the street views.  

I nudged the door with the toe of my shoe. The light was on the living room and the sound of shuffling feet could be heard.  

“Yo.” I said.  

The shuffling stopped.  

The door kept opening, slowly. The hinges made a grating sound. And old wooden thing on rusted metal had been the same door to that apartment since it was built in the late 60’s.  

A head popped out of the kitchen. Cliff. “Hello?” He said, like he lived there.  

“Fuck you doing in here?” Stepping into Jackie’s place.  

“Elam?” Cliff came out of the kitchen, fully. He had a small notepad and a pen in his hands. Had on slick pants and short-sleeved-polo, tennis shoes and that good hair, reticulating like Hokusai waves. A crooked smile on his face, to allay any suspicions you might have about any skullduggery he might be involved in. 

“What’re you doing in Jackie’s place, man?” 

His smiled broadened and his shoulders came up an inch. “It’s uh… not really her place anymore and I have to make an inventory of the abode, as some might say.” He looked around and finally shrugged. “S’fucked up, man.” 

“Inventory?” 

“Most of it’ll get sold off, you know. We can make a profit on something.” He eyed me. “Losing a tenant and all.”  

Ah yes, profit. You know the name of the game. The world keeps turning. People die but profit lives. Who are you to question that? Some golf-pro with an oblivious side hustle. All in the name of carving out space. Owning dirt. It meant that much to them. And people were always in the way, occupying it. You just had to move them. Move them by whatever means. If blood was spilled, all the better. It was good for the soil.  

“That didn’t take you long.” I looked at the fake watch on my wrist. “It’s been what, a day?” 

Cliff’s mouth was open, but no words came for a few seconds. “Well, you know… I mean, it’s just…” He shook his head. “I’m just doing what I’m told.”  

We both looked over at the blood stain on the couch. It smelled of rotting maple in that living room. “What you gonna do with the couch, put it on Facebook marketplace? There buyers for second-hand furniture where folks have been murdered on them?” 

Cliff blinked and his cheeks reddened. His nose was almost purple. He shook his head searching for an answer. “What the fuck, man.”  Was all he could come up with. But thinking way back somewhere in his wet-brain that it was a good idea.  

“What’d you gonna do when Hosseini ain’t got nothing left for you?” 

“What?” 

“You think you might know too much?” 

The magenta-nosed golf-pro was flummoxed. Maybe he was drunk. At eleven-o’clock in the morning. Probably nothing new for him. “About what?” He shook his head. “We already talked about this, Elam. This thing with Jackie, man… I don’t know.” His eyes were troubled and his mouth went all pouty. 

That was the second time he’d said my name. A forced familiarity. A game men play. We look you in the eye and shake your hand too tight and say your name. It’s a falsity of character that really burns your guts. Jackie Meaux played golf. It was something she didn’t really talk about. She’d probably played with Cliff a few times. She played for what reasons most people start playing. To be perfect. Her clubs were in the living room, in a corner by a desk. Off to my left, a little behind Cliff and to his right.  

I stepped over there, the golf-pro watching me, and grabbed whatever numbered iron. It wasn’t the driver or the putter. I knew that much. Maybe it was the seven-iron. Pulled it out in one smooth motion and swung it at Cliff’s head.  

He was of the mind that nothing like that would ever happen to him. How long had he been playing golf? No one had ever swung a club at his head. The tip of the club caught him in his right ear. It made a dinging noise and reverberated in my hand. Cliff made a noise too. A slight scream and an ahhhh. He stumbled to his left and used the cough to prop himself up. I turned fully towards him, the club in my right hand, and swung the thing with my left hand helping. The blunt, short end caught him in the mouth. Front teeth shattered with a wood splintering sound.  

Cliff fell against the couch, holding his mouth. Blood ran through his fingers. His right ear was red and already swelling. He was whimpering, almost crying. Maybe he’d never felt pain like that. I stood over him and felt not a tinge of remorse. A torturer extracting information. A man in control, finally. Watching the blood flow over his fingers. Enthralled by how much of it there was. Pointing the club at him, Cliff moved further into the couch. “Did you look in the safe yet?” 

He mumbled something unintelligible. I pressed the end of the seven-iron into his chest. “You don’t even know what you’re looking for, do you?” I didn’t even know what I was asking, just winging it, feeling like I had a big stick for once. “What’s your boss scared of?” There had to be something that spooked the man.  

Cliff had nothing to offer but trembling and tears. He was done. Broken. But broken to the point of uselessness. Some inquisitor. But mentioning the safe started a germ working through the back of my head. I left Cliff bleeding on the couch. A fitting piece of furniture for it. Oh, the blood it had seen.  

I beelined down the hall, going into the room on the left and headed straight for the closet. The safe was gone. That was strange and stood me up straight. Made me wonder if it were ever there in the first place. Did I have the wrong room? Did the due diligence and checked the other bedroom. No, it wasn’t in there. I ran back into the living room. Cliff was gone. The front door was wide open.  

He was on the stairs when I caught up to him. Stumbling up the steps, leaving a trail of blood. I just followed him. Not wanting to attract attention from the other tenants. But really, I wanted to see where he was going. You forget, in certain moments that people will lead you where you need to go. Cliff made it to his apartment on gangly legs. Drip, drip, dripping. He left the door wide open for me. In the kitchen he slipped on his own blood and lay splayed out on his back for what seemed like minutes. I stood in the doorway, waiting. He eventually got up and made it out to the patio. Lurching towards one of the corners, where a plastic storage container sat. He lifted the lid and reached inside the container and tried pulling something out of it, but whatever it was, was too heavy. I strode over and looked over his shoulder.  

Jackie’s safe.  

Cliff collapsed down to both knees, trying to pull the thing out. How had he gotten it up here in the first place? 

“You need some help?” I asked.  

He was startled at first. His teeth were a red backdrop set in a strange grimace his face seemed to be stuck in. “It’s the safe.” Cliff managed to say.  

“I see that.” I told him. “How’d you manage to get that up here?” 

“Had help.” He leaned his arms on the edge of the container. “I don’t know where he is now.” He was breathing through his mouth.  

The porch jutted over the alley. I could see where Willie’s pile of things were over the deck’s railing. “When’d you move it?” 

Cliff looked up at me. “What?” 

Willie could’ve helped him. But what did it matter at this point, if he did. I shrugged the man off. “Can you even open the thing?” 

He shook his head slowly.  

“What’s in there that Hosseini needs?” 

Cliff sat down. Blood was dripping from his lips, the flow of it had slowed down considerably. He was hunched over and exhausted. “I don’t know, man.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”  

“Bullshit.”  

The golf-pro sighed. It was more of wheeze. “Can you just leave me alone?” He looked up at me and yelled. “Just leave me the fuck alone!” 

“Too late for all that.” I looked up and around to see if other people were out on their balconies. I don’t even know why I cared at this point. “And nobody’s gonna be left alone now.”  

He sighed and cried a little. Or it looked as though he might be crying, it was hard to tell. His face was a mess. “She’s dead, man. Just let her rest.”  

I don’t know if I hated anyone more than I did him in that moment. That feeling misdirected, I’m sure. But maybe not. It wasn’t all his fault, I know. It was a system people like him had created, that had been infiltrated and turned on its head, and he was lost and grasping for things in the past, like everyone else.  

“She’s resting. Believe me. We the one’s that can’t.” I leaned in and punched my birthday into the pad on the safe. “None of this will ever be over. Not really.” I took out some files. Papers in manila folders. That’s what Hosseini wanted, that’s what he’d get.  

“It’s just a bunch of paper.”  

“Legal documents.” Cliff pointed out.  

“Why would Jackie have them?” 

“She stole them.”  

Why would she steal them? But I didn’t ask it out loud. Cliff wouldn’t have the answer to that. And he was a broken. Sitting there, slumped over with his legs slightly bent in front of him, arms resting on his knees, breathing through his mouth that still dripped blood. His left ear was red and big as a fist. A freakish sideshow attraction. Some carny gone wrong. But if he got himself together, he could walk out of here and someone would want to meet his make-up artist.  

I left Cliff there on the deck and headed back up the alley, with those files under my arm. The ambulances were gone. Most of the cops too. A couple of patrol cars were parked in spaces and the 7-Eleven was yellow-taped up. That guy working the flower stand was still trying to sell his beauties. He was looking at me. He gave me a nod. I nodded back, but he kept his gaze on me.  

I walked over.  

“I saw you with the big man.” He started. “Willie.” He had his hands in his navy-blue Dickie’s jacket. “Cops shot him.”  

Maybe the man was in shock. He needed to talk it out. I didn’t feel like I had the time. I stood there not wanting to be rude. “Yeah, I know.” Nodding. 

“When they took him out…” He looked around. Cops were still about. “They had the thing over his mouth.” He made a hand gesture that didn’t help explain anything. “I thought he was dead, but why would they be giving him oxygen and shit.” He shook his head. “You know, when they’re carting him out on the stretcher, they had that little oxygen mask on his mouth.” He mimed the placing of mask on a mouth.  

“I don’t know.” I shook my head, looking around for cops, not wanting them to see me. Maybe Merchant and Larsen had told them to keep an eye out for me.  

“I seen you with him.” Flower guy said. “Thought you should know, you know.”  

“Thanks.” 

I turned and walked to the mustang. There was a note on the windshield. I snatched it quick and looked around. Then looked at the note.  

It read: “Look at your fucking phone!!” The handwriting was in cursive. Must be Merchant. Notifications of missed calls from Merchant. A text message from Merchant: “Your boy is Lazarus! Motherfucker’s breathing. Where are you!?” 

There was another missed text message. From Jackie’s phone. Fucking Beebe. “we need to meet…” Was all it said.  

Lower case and ellipses. Good bet it wasn’t her texting. Good bet it was her sister. Or her brother. And if the latter was the case, then he was looking for his money. For some reason, I found myself grinning. Maybe, just maybe I knew how to fuck with some people. 

First things first. A run out to the valley was in order. Merchant and Larsen and Big Willie could wait. Beebe, Ed and La Pantera Rosa and the whole MS-13 crowd could wait. But not Hosseini. That motherfucker could not wait. Up Wilshire and the 405 to Sherman Oaks. What day was it today? Would the office even be open? If it weren’t, would there be someone burning the weekend oil? I checked my phone. It was still Sunday. Midday coming down into the orange, dusty haze of the valley. A right on Ventura and there was that little strip mall.  

P&C Real Estate.  

There was that god-awful, champagne-colored Prius parked in front of the place. Early bird gets the worm. So, they say. To motivate the masses. But worms only burrow into your stomach and eat you from the inside. I parked next to the hybrid and gathered the files and walked into the real-estate office. 

Andrea was not happy to see me. She looked like she was looking forward to lunch. Getting ready to leave, thinking about where she was gonna go. Then in walks this ambiguous mess of a man who hasn’t showered in a few days. 

“You know we have a security firm that comes out at a moment’s notice.” She put her hand on a landline phone. “Just gotta call them.”  

I nodded. “That’s good customer service.”  

“This is a real-estate office, not a cell-phone company or a coffee shop.” Andrea pointed out.  

“It’s a real-estate office.” Widening my eyes like a true buffoon. A buffoon with a cracked smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “Then maybe you can help me with something.” I plopped the files on her desk. Her Filipino flag fluttered. Andrea didn’t say anything. She just looked at the folders. Then raised her eyes up to my face and affected boredom. Her hand was still on the phone.  

“You said Jackie was your friend.”  

She swallowed and blinked. “And she was yours.”  

I nodded. “You know what the code to her safe is?” 

Andrea was flummoxed. “What?” 

“The code to her safe.”  

She shook her head. “How would I fucking know that? Or care?” 

“My birthday.” I told her. “That’s the code you punch in that so many people couldn’t figure.”  

“Well, good for you.”  

I pointed at her, very casually. “No, it’s good for you.”  

“How so?” She was so sure of the question not coming back on her.  

Pressing my finger down on the files. “Good for you because these files were in Jackie’s safe.”  

Andrea was playing it all the way down the line. Her nose crinkled up and she shook her head, barely noticeable. Like, just what is this creature hollering about. But there was wariness underneath.  

She picked up the phone.  

“Because you’re the one that gave these files to Jackie.”  

The phone clacked back down on its cradle. She blinked and cleared her throat. “Excuse me.” Her voice didn’t even have her back.  

“How else would Jackie have these in her possession?” 

Andrea shrugged. “How should I know?” She looked passed me, out of the front windows toward Ventura Blvd. “She was as close to Hosseini as anyone.” 

“So, Hosseini gave her these files?” 

Another shrug. “You think I’m privy to everything that man does? Also, please leave. Now.” 

I opened one of the files. “See, your signature is on all these, though.” Picked up a piece of paper to show her. “And you were friends with Jackie Meaux.”  

She looked down at her desk.  

“Right?” I prodded.  

“What’s to say she didn’t steal them?” 

“Could be, but I think you gave them to her.”  

“Why would I do that?” 

“Cause you were back-dooring Hosseini.”  

She began to hear a buzzing. Don’t ask me how I knew that. It got quiet and all you could hear was a low moving of machinery out on Ventura. A dulling hum of things we don’t have to do anymore. 

“You need to leave.” Andrea picked the phone back up.  

“We followed you that day, you know.” I told her.  

“What?” She stopped, phone midway between receiver and ear.  

“The other day. When was that?”  

“Saturday.” She stated. “Yesterday.”  

“Right, you’re here on a weekend.” I looked around the office. “It’s just you, huh. One lady show. No other employees.”  

That scared her. But not in the way I wanted. It was a physical thing. She was all alone in this office with me. A man. Bigger than some. And with wilder ideas than most. No telling what he would do.  

I put a hand up. “I’m just saying, you work a lot. Maybe the compensation plan leaves a little bit to be desired. Maybe you carved something out for yourself.” I watched her closely, still holding the phone. “And Jackie.”  

Andrea’s eyes did a little thing. Don’t know if it quite registered, but it was noticed. A softness was let in. “You followed me…”  

“To that building in Filipinotown.”  

“Right.” She put the phone down, yet again.  

“Hosseini know?” 

She gave me a keen look. “What do you think?” 

“You go over to that building for what?” I was throwing things around. “Then go downtown to the county board of supervisors.” I shrugged. “What’s that all about?” 

Andrea looked disturbed now. Threatened for real. I didn’t want to be there. Bullying a woman in a real-estate office. A big, bad man doing his duty to keep things the way they should be. It wasn’t the way.  

I put my hands up. “Look, I don’t want anything other than to know what happened to my friend.”  

“Yeah, you said that before.” She’d steeled herself. “And I think I might have said this before. She never mentioned you to me.”  

Andrea had her own knives. I didn’t feel so bad about us then. This situation of menace. “You guys that close, then?” 

A personal question she wasn’t quite ready to answer. “We were friends, I told you that.” She looked furtively away.  

“That came up with a scheme.” I told her, looking at the files on her desk. Knowing what she meant when she said she was friends with Jackie. It was different. Something I could never touch.  

“You think Hosseini cares?”  

“I don’t know if he does.” I thought about it. “But I plan to make him hurt.”  

“Why?” Andrea had a nice stank-face going.  

“Are you kidding?” 

She pursed her lips and gazed again at Ventura Blvd. Cars going by. People on bikes and street folks pushing shopping carts. “What’s your plan?” She asked without looking at me.  

I always hated job interviews. Probably because I never endeavored to have a plan. A foreseeable future besides two weeks and then a paycheck. Never thought about moving pieces in my head, ahead of time. But what did I have there to hurt Hosseini? What was in those files that he wanted so badly? Had Cliff go into her apartment and take the whole damn safe.  

“The stone.” I said out loud. 

“What?”  

“Oh, Jackie didn’t tell you?”  

Andrea gave me a look. Somewhere between fuck you and go fuck yourself. I told her about the opal in her safe. About the Agassi’s and the Bonilla’s and Flores’. About the spooky pull of this opaque nebula in the palm.  

After I was done, she looked at me, finally. “She never told me she had it.”  

“Still don’t know how she got it.”  

Andrea thought about that for a moment. “I think I know how she got it.”  

That surprised me. “How?” 

She leaned across the desks and picked up the files and began thumbing through them. “The Agassi’s have… invested a lot of money in the company.” 

The company. 

“Flores’ have too, so I hear.”  

She cut her eyes up at me. She nodded. I certainly did get around. And those Salvis hadn’t lied to us. “So, what? That’s your angle? Expose him for taking money from gangsters?” She gave me a pitying look. “How do you think things get done around town?” 

“You think the people of LA don’t care about that shit?” I asked her. “Maybe they don’t.” Thinking about it. “But somebody will want to write about it, to fill space. And a whole lot of people will click on it, cause they got nothing else to do.” 

Andrea gave that some thought. “You an internet expert?” 

“It’s a story.”  

She seemed resigned to agree. “Yeah, maybe. You would have to make sure Hosseini’s name is in it somewhere.”  

Now she was scheming, and that’s all I needed. “You can go tell him that.” Nodding at the files. “I’ll need those back.”  

There was a pause and I truly thought she had me. She could just keep them and know I couldn’t physically take them from her. A silent agreement had been made. She’d seen it back deep in my eyes.  

But she slid the files over. The money she was sloughing off the man meant too much to her. “What proof do I offer him?” 

“Tell him I know who has the opal.” 

“You do?” 

“I do.”  

“Why would he care?” 

“He probably doesn’t.” I told her. “But someone else might.” 

Chapter Fourteen

Where the Motes Dance and the Atoms collide, and the Bones are Wet Chalk.

Our mamas weren’t the same. But our friendship to Jackie might’ve been in the same ballpark. But it still felt as if Big Willie Winsboro could see the floor, and I still had lumber under my ass. I still didn’t know how she ended up with that opal. And I still didn’t know for sure who cut her throat. Some way, or some time, I’d knew I’d figure it all out.  

We took the barrel up to a house in Westwood. The thing had thirty million dollars in it, Willie finally confessed. And we just rolled up into some dude’s garage on Thayer Ave.  

It wasn’t just some dude, though. It was Jasper Hosseini’s house. It was this church-like thing up on a small green hill, but still nestled in the neighborhood. The house was a bonanza of A-frames, with tan stucco walls and redwood shingles. The garage was built on the low part of the small hill. Two, heavy wooden doors that swung up. We put the blue barrel in the back corner of the garage that housed two Mercedes.  

Hosseini didn’t come out to greet us. Or thank us for recovering his money. I wasn’t sure whether we’d recovered it or stole it. Either way, it was above my pay grade. But speaking of getting paid.  

“Flores promised us four-hundred grand.” I reminded Willie as he lowered the garage door. It made a horrible wrenching noise and the big man looked around to see if any neighbors were disturbed.  

“It ain’t Flores’ to give anymore.” Willie looked uncomfortable in this hood. His steps looked like they were on borrowed time.  

“What’s your boss gonna do with thirty million?” 

Big man rankled at that. “You just got a way about you. Thinking we got to a place, but we really didn’t, did we?” 

“What place did we get to? You still holding on to cards. Playing me out. Tell me what kind of place is that, Willie?” I looked at Hosseini’s house. “Some place where you’re just the help, huh. You only allowed in the garage.”  

I thought he might thump me again; put me to sleep, his jaw was rippled and tight. But his nostrils flaring was only a meditative release. “I owe the man something.” Was all he said. He footed the garage door shut.  

“Jackie owe him too?” I asked.  

He looked at me and then glanced across the street at another two-million-dollar home. “Ever see yourself living in a place like that?” 

“If so, she paid in full.”  

Big Willie nodded. “She did.”  

Some brakes toiled to a stop and we both looked out to the street. A dark Crown-Vic came to a stop in front of the house. Johnson and Johnson got out and adjusted their ties and lingered around their government vehicle. Tall Johnson cleared his throat, and some belligerent crow in a eucalyptus tree yelled back at him. Short Johnson had his hands in his pockets, chin tucked to his chest like he was waiting on some paperwork to be filled out.  

“Fuck they want?” Willie asked.  

“They ain’t here to see us.” I told him.  

His head turned towards me and his eyes were crinkled in question. “What?” 

The front door to the A-Frame-a-thon opened and Mr. Hosseini stepped out and waved a hand at the agents, like they were two family members come to visit for Thanksgiving. Short Johnson kept his hands in his pockets, but Tall Johnson smiled a dumb smile and waved back.  

“What the fuck?” Willie was dumbfounded.  

Tall Johnson started walking up to the front door as his partner kind of hung back and pursed his lips at me. “A business man needs partners, I guess.”  

“Motherfucker.”  

“You didn’t know?” 

“Fuck you.” Willie was staring at Hosseini.  

The old Persian didn’t bother to look our way. Maybe his neck was too stiff from the fall he took last night. He looked like he was sucking on a Werthers, waiting for his grandchildren to get here. Hands in the nice pockets of his nice, charcoal slacks.  

“Hey!” Willie raised his voice. 

The agents kept walking up the cement walkway towards Hosseini; who still hadn’t acknowledged the delivery of thirty million dollars. We’d just cut the lawn and needed to go on to the next house.  

“Hey, motherfucker!” Willie bellowed, and that crow in the eucalyptus squawked and took flight.  

The whole neighborhood was tinged in goose-pimples. Every blade of grass in all the front lawns stood straight as light poles. Johnson and Johnson stopped a few feet away from Hosseini, who sucked his caramel and finally looked our way.  

“You working with these two crackers!” Willie accused the man. 

A few more birds took off, not wanting to see a man of means get yelled at in his own neighborhood like that. It was shameful. The FBI agents were thinking the same thing. Looking from us to Hosseini, like, you gonna take that kind of lip from the help. Mr. Hosseini took his right hand out of his custom pocket and held it up. Like that was all he had to do to silence the plebian.  

“You motherfucker.” Willie said it so only he and I could hear it.  

“What’s it for?” I yelled at the Johnsons.  

They both were still looking over at us. Aviator sunglasses on in the bright morning light. The sky was a brilliant, pale blue. “What?” The tall one asked.  

“The thirty million in the barrel we put in the garage.” I yelled.  

Hosseini was looking around for neighbors who might be snooping. Hands back in his pockets. Tall Johnson looked at him. Hosseini shook his head.  

“What kind of land deal you guys in on?” I yelled some more.  

“Motherfucker.” Willie said.  

I looked at him. “I hope you got more to say than that. You having a seizure?” 

Willie looked at me. “It’s the fucking V.A.”  

“What?” 

“That land is up for sale.” He spit on the ground. “Where Veteran’s Hospital is. All that shit’s for sale.”  

“How you know that?” I asked.  

“It’s all anybody talks about over there.”  

Over there. “You at Veteran’s Affairs much?” 

He shook his head. “7-Eleven.”  

All the loopy-headed, sideways-walking people that come and go from the convenience store, looking for malt-liquor and hot dogs. The things that come out of their mouths are to be ignored. Just put your head down and you won’t see them. I looked from Big Willie to the Johnsons. The short one had his head down. The tall one was saying something to Hosseini.  

“They’re just middlemen.” I told Willie. “What’s this got to do with Jackie?” 

Hosseini and the agents were up there on top of the hill. We were down there by the garage. They were talking, doing their best to ignore us. Just make sure you pick up the grass clippings.  

“Jackie figured out who her neighbors were.” Willie said, out of nowhere.  

“What?” 

Willie turned towards me. “She figured Hosseini was keeping a stable.” He looked up the hill. “Ain’t that right!” He yelled.  

They looked down at us again. This time Hosseini looked nonplussed, shaking his head. Tall Johnson looked annoyed, with his hands on his hips, he nodded at us. “LAPD’s got a warrant out for your arrest. You might wanna break camp and get out of town, I was you.”  

“You was me, huh.” Willie spat in TJ’s general direction.  

“I know, it’s a big stretch, putting myself in your shoes, imagining myself living in a tent in an alley.” Tall Johnson sucked his teeth and shook his head, with this stupid smirk on his face. “But life’s all about what kind of imagination you got. Like can you imagine yourself not living in a tent in an alley. Some people just see the ten feet in front of them. That’s how they get lost.”  

I laughed. Some more crows took flight. “Federal government pays you to sound like a dumbass white man. That’s what’s beyond anyone’s imagination. How you can be out in the world saying and doing the stupidest shit, playing with people’s lives and get a paycheck for it? Cause you’re really bad at what you do.”  

Willie laughed now.  

Tall Johnson’s lips disappeared and he turned towards us. Short Johnson put a palm up, like hold on now.  

“You think I’m bad at what I do.” Tall Johnson managed a forced chuckle. “What is it you’re doing with your life, Elam Mangham? Currently out of work, Elam Mangham.” He took his hands off his waist, getting loose. “Same for Big Willie Winsboro. Wanted for murder.” He looked like he might come down the hill to our level. “Of your own friend. Looks like you’re both doing an amazing job.”  

Short Johnson shook his head. Hosseini looked like he wanted to go back inside. Neighbors were starting to stick their heads out.  

“Again, you’re getting paid to not know a damn thing.” I told TJ. “Shit’s supposedly in your purview, but maybe talk to your partner every once in a while.”  

That stopped him. The tall one looked at the short one. Short Johnson was staring hard at me. “What’s that?” Tall Johnson asked. 

Hosseini said something we couldn’t hear. Johnson and Johnson seemed to listen to him and back off. Hosseini had the front door open and the agents went inside with him. Willie and I stood there and let it happen.  

“Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.” I lamented.  

“Let’s go.” Willie said.  

I was a bit shocked. “What? We’re right here. The end of the line. That fucker can answer for Jackie.” I pointed at the house.  

Willie stepped around me. “He ain’t got nothing to say. But you right, it is the end of the line.” He walked towards my truck.  

Watching him step long and weary towards the stolen Mustang, thoughts of whatever blanched my brain. What now was pushing back. The nexus in the road. It doesn’t matter which road you take. Does it? They both end up in same place.  

Hosseini’s house was quiet. The neighborhood went back to its own business. Willie was getting in the car. His place was known now. Or so he thought. I still didn’t know who killed Jackie Meaux.  

We left Westwood. It was a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. Unless you were a millionaire with government friends. So, back down Wilshire we went. Through that beautiful gauntlet of planned palm trees and vast green lawns. Manicured for the dead. Must have been a thousand graves for dead soldiers in that cemetery across from the Fed building. A nice spread to come home to in death. It stretched up towards Bel-Air. A long field of shamrock with hardly a stone to be seen. They were all recessed markers.  

“Pretty place to rest.” Big Willie mused, as we passed.  

Couldn’t argue against that, so I didn’t. We cruised on under the freeway and drove through the Veteran’s center. There was a white church on a hill that was dilapidated and had a chain-linked fence around it. 

“You said the place was up for sale?” I asked. 

“That’s the word around the campfire.” 

“Word on the street.”  

Willie sighed. “Whatever you wanna call it.”  

“Hosseini’s buying it?” 

“What?” 

“He’s buying the land for what? The fed land. The Veteran’s center and all them dead people back there. What’s he gonna do with it all?” 

Big Willie Winsboro looked at me. “What’s it matter?” He spit out of the window.  

The flow of traffic came to a standstill. No one ever knows why this happens. A wreck, people trying to get to the beach, or just too many damn people with cars in a city indentured to rubber and cement.  

“It cost a couple people their lives.” I reminded him. “That matters, motherfucker.”  

That motherfucker snapped Willie out of whatever gloom he had blanketed himself in. He looked over at me, again. “I know it matters.” Was all he had to say.  

“Back there at Hosseini’s, you said something about Jackie figuring out who was living next to her. What’d you mean?” 

“Think about it. She’s working that building downtown. It wasn’t the only thing Hosseini had her on. You know what I mean?” 

I didn’t, and let it ride through my silence, like I was thinking about it. Which I was. Jackie was working other angles for her boss. Okay. What angles? 

Willie was telepathic all of sudden, nodding with my unseen mental tasks. “Assholes coming and going, carrying shit in briefcases. Shit like diamonds and opals.”  

“She knew about the robberies.” I said.  

“Well, she had too, if she was working security in that building.”  

“But she knew the Salvadoreans were ripping certain people off.”  

“She was good, she would know that.”  

“She say anything to you about it?” 

Big Willie made a face, like, what’d you think. We inched along Wilshire. The old, rundown, church stood vigil off to our right. It was something out of an old Western. A sanctuary on a hill. Maybe it was some old set miles away from Gower Gulch.  

“Pretty sure she knew what Erik and Beebe were about.” Willie looked out at the church and seemed transfixed by it. “That Erik had to be the one that brought that stone to Ed’s attention.”  

“What?” I hit the brakes, barely avoiding rear-ending an Audi. “Why would he wanna get rid of the thing?”  

Willie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he was in a tight spot and needed two-grand.”  

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” Working it out in my head. “Dude was obsessed with the thing. He wouldn’t wanna get rid of it.”  

Willie and I ruminated. Sitting in traffic, not really knowing where we were going. Back to the Jackie’s building. Back to his alley. All of it Hosseini’s anyway. Even that church was Hosseini’s soon.  

“Beebe.” Willie finally said.  

Cars finally started rolling and things opened up to more than a crawl. I pulled the Mustang into the 7-Eleven parking lot. It was packed with cars at this time of the morning. Ten o’clock. The only spot open was a perpendicular place out near the sidewalk. Big Willie was out of the truck and stretching before I could turn the key. He was smiling too. The sun hitting him in the face.  

I got out of the car, giving him a wary look. “You alright?” 

He took a deep, long breath of piss and vagrancy. “Yeah.” Was all he said.  

“Good to be home, I guess.”  

We hadn’t been away all that long. But in L.A. your neighborhood is your neighborhood. Even a convenience store can have the smells of home.  And it was definitely a happening spot. Every spot filled in front of the place. People walking in out and Willie’s people loitering outside. Veterans and all sorts of folks living in the outdoors, in the sunshine.  

We walked toward the entrance and I eyed the cars lined up in front. One of the cars looked familiar. A Crown Vic. Not the Feds though. We knew where they were. No, it had to be Merchant and Larsen. Hanging around, knowing where the man lay his head.  

“Hold up.” I blurted, standing in the middle of the parking lot.  

Willie looked over his shoulder at me, but kept walking.  

My eyes went towards the store. There was a lot of people inside and it was hard to tell if the detectives were in there, buying donuts and coffee.  

“Willie.” Trying to stop him, just for a second.  

“What?” He finally stopped.  

I nodded towards the Crown Vic.  

Big Willie gave it a gander. Then immediately looked inside the store. He didn’t see them in there either. He shrugged and kept walking.  

I went in after him.  

Merchant and Larsen were not in the 7-Eleven. Maybe it was some other plain clothes cops buying coffee and donuts, or whatever mystery-meat they slap on a bun at ten o’clock in the morning. Which a bunch of construction workers were going to town on. The store was filled with yellow hardhats and orange work vests. Men with hard looks working a site across the street, on the corner of Wilshire and Barrington. A new apartment high-rise. An all-glass thing, reflecting blue sky to the multitudes.  

They all looked at Willie like they knew him. All giving him knowing nods and the big man giving them back. He moved through them, towards the back of the store, opening one of the cooler doors and grabbed a big fruit-punch Gatorade. I stood near the front door, not really wanting anything in there. I stepped outside and a wrinkled, old-prune of a man asked me for a dollar. He was hanging out by the trash can. His fingers were black, like he’d plunged his hands in million cans just like it. He had a greyish-yellow beard and lines on his face that went all the way back to the Sumerians. There were no dollars to give him. Just a card to be swiped that one guards with their life. I just shrugged and mumbled at the guy and moved on past him, like a had some better station in life pulling me away.  

When, in fact, I didn’t. Not much separated me from that man. There are a million hairline cracks in the trillions of miles of concrete we’ve built. It’s a miracle if you stay top-side and… 

A LAPD patrol car had pulled up right in front of the mustang. Okay, lots of cops stop at 7-Elevens. But the two cops that got out of that car were familiar to me.  

Martinez and Matos.  

The two patrolmen that cuffed Willie and I on the curb and eventually hauled us downtown. A squirming in my gut made me think of the man’s black fingertips back there, rummaging through what I had left of any intestinal feelings.  

Coincidence is just a word. And this area of West LA is no doubt their beat. But the timing is conspicuous. And that Crown Vic was still there and no plain clothes cops in sight. Martinez and Matos were both looking sheepish. Like they were there for someone specific, but didn’t want them to know that.  

Real subtle.  

They ambled towards me, or the store; couldn’t quite tell. I moved to my left, where I young man was selling flowers. He had a nice set up, selling to the all the young white people, fresh out of UCLA and USC, living in the neighborhood.  

Martinez and Matos eyed me and entered the store.  

Strange. There’s a stolen car right there. They parked right in front of it. Not to mention they had us on the curb just yesterday morning.

I stepped past the shimmer of red and purple and yellow and orange of the flower set-up and walked towards the alley that led back to Jackie’s building and where Big Willie Winsboro lived. The way was silty with loose pebbles. An alley that hadn’t been re-paved in years. Potholes everywhere. It sloped down towards Texas Ave and even further down to Santa Monica Blvd.  

The crunch underfoot was deafening. So quiet.  

Down near Jackie’s building, I stopped. Willie’s tent wasn’t where it was supposed to be. A few more steps and, you could see why. Someone had ransacked it and left it in shambles. The tent and all of his possessions strewn across, and down the alley. It looked like good police work. Or so, those ham sandwiches would tell you. If they have a piece of paper in hand from a judge, they can litter as much as they want. Societal rules don’t apply.  

Being a good human being is out of the door as well. You cease to be one when they think you’ve committed a crime. Especially murder.  

I stood there, looking at the man’s entire life, carelessly thrown across a concrete gully in West Los Angeles, and wanted more for the man. Wondered if someone like me was doing enough.  

“Your boy could use a house cleaner?” A voice to my right said.  

Could tell it was fucking Merchant, right away. He was standing in the walkway of Jackie’s building, with Larsen, a crutch in his right armpit. Motherfucker was still coughing up bits of his lungs. Good for him.  

“You gonna give him a ticket for littering?” I turned towards the two dicks. “Tough job you got here, throwing trash around in alleys.”  

Larsen spit brown phlegm in my direction. Merchant had that stupid mustached-smirk on his face. “Unfortunately, that’s most of what this job is, sifting through trash, looking for more trash. The steamier the better.”  

“Glad you’ve accepted your lot in life.”  

“Have you?” Larsen asked, with a wet, popping sound in his throat.  

“I don’t know. Tell me what that lot is. You motherfuckers are the life coaches.”  

Larsen’s mouth tightened and he looked over at his partner. Merchant liked the life-coach line, you could see it in his smirk. Feeling loose because they had the upper hand, and pretty damn sure their prey was near. He limped closer, using the crutch. 

“Surprised your up and about.” I told him. 

Merchant gave a slight shrug. “Just a flesh wound and I got a big ass.” He paused for laughs. There were one. Then he proceeded to be a cop again. “Good start would be to keep walking, let your boy take the fall for all this.” Merchant said. “We like him for your friends murder.”  

I looked at Merchant long and hard. Avoiding looking at the wretch Larsen. “What kind of motive you putting on him for it? What’s he get out of killing his best friend?” 

Merchant finally glanced at his partner. “Look at this fucker, talking about motive, like everybody who’s ever watched a fucking Law & Order.” He shook his head.  

 Larsen agreed with a muffled cough. “Lay of the fucking land, these days, motive don’t amount to much, when you’re making a case.”  

“These days?” I looked at Larsen like he was a dog with worms under a carport. “It’s always been that way for a black man.” Merchant was inching closer. “When have you ever needed a fucking motive to shoot us.”  

“Us?” Merchant was surprised.  

I shot him a hard look.  

Gunshots went off somewhere.  

Three, four, five shots. Then six and seven. Sounding like they were coming from up near Wilshire. Merchant and Larsen started moving in that direction. Larsen pulled his piece and shuffled up the alley. Merchant doing his best with the crutch. I went ahead.

The 7-Eleven parking lot was swarming with folks. Construction dudes and nine-to-fivers all breathing heavy and looking back towards the store. An electric lilt quivered through everyone. Merchant and Larsen pushed through and I followed, through the double doors, inside the store, the clerk leaning over the counter looking down an aisle, towards the back of the place.  

Martinez and Matos had their guns drawn, two hands on metal, arms straight as arrows, standing in back aisle where all the coolers were. Their gats weren’t smoking but you could smell charcoal and sulphur. An odor that ate away at your nose hairs.  

Big Willie Winsboro was up against one of the glass cooler doors. Slumped but sitting up, kinda. He had four bullet holes in him. Three more had shattered glass behind him. A golden energy drink was all over the floor, mixed with red.  

Nobody said anything for a long time. We just listened to Willie breath. A rattle, they call it. Death rattle. It’s more like a crinkling sound. Like a piece of paper being scrunched up and opened back up and flattened out on a table.  

A man’s life. A white piece of paper on a table.  

“What the fuck?!” Merchant finally yelled.  

Martinez and Matos looked around and lowered their guns.  

“Why’d you shoot him?” Merchant asked.  

The patrol officers just looked at each other, spooked.  

“Huh?” Merchant pushed. “What’d you shoot him for?” He moved in between them, closer to Willie. “He have a weapon?” 

Martinez raised a hand in Willie’s direction. There was a Gatorade bottle near his right hand. “He wasn’t complying.”  

Matos backed him up. “We asked him to get down on his knees.” She looked at me. “He wouldn’t listen.”  

“So, you shot him five times.” I pointed out.  

They all looked at me.  

“Fuck!” Merchant yelled.  

The patrol officers didn’t even flinch. They holstered their guns and stood there.  

“He wasn’t complying.” Larsen cut in. “Didn’t he threaten you in anyway?” 

Martinez and Matos exchanged a furtive glance. “He said some things…” Matos started. “Talking shit.”  

“Talking shit?!” Merchant’s mind was blown.  

Matos shook her head and looked down at her feet. “He wasn’t backing down.”  

“Sir, we had no other choice.” Martinez implored.  

“Cause your job depended on it?” The patrol officers both shot quick looks my way. “Or your life?” 

“Fuck does that mean?” Larsen hacked out the words through a grumbling cough.  

“I don’t know, ask Hosseini.”  

Both Martinez and Matos’ flared and the skin on their faces tightened. Bingo. Bought and paid for. You could feel their heartbeats from where they stood. The money wasn’t enough. It’s all just a trick.  

“Ask who?” Larsen looked at Merchant.  

But he was kneeling down in front of Willie, with his back to us. I stepped over and did the same. Merchant stood up and backed away. Big Willie wasn’t really present. Barely breathing, looking off somewhere above us into the ether. Where the motes dance and atoms collide, bringing about the white light. A different white light than that of the Southland. 

“Who the fuck is Hosseini?” Larsen chirped.  

“Shut the fuck up.” Merchant told him. 

“What?” Larsen again.  

I put my hand on his leg, like, hey man, I’m here. Someone is here with you. His eyes trickled down to me. What was I to him? Some stranger who drove him around one last time until his death.  

Or drove him to it.  

“I’m sorry.” Was all I could say.  

Big Willie Winsboro blinked and shuttered. Merchant cursed again. Larsen was still trying to find out who Hosseini was. I stayed, crouched in front of Willie until I couldn’t feel my legs any longer. Ambulances came and more cops. Merchant and Larsen became busy with directing traffic in out of the 7-Eleven. Cops upon cops upon cops. Internal Affairs bigwigs came down the cop pipe. But no sign of the feds. Probably too busy counting their money. Hosseini hoping his place in the middle passage would still keep him unseen.  

I wandered out of the store and through the parking lot and down the alley again and found myself picking up the detritus of Willie’s life. A person cleaning up and alleyway wasn’t something you would see every day. Other than those looking for aluminum cans to recycle, most of the time alleys in L.A. are defacto dumps. Need a second-hand couch or mattress, just cruise the alleys on the Westside and you’ll find the choicest hand-me-downs. You need a tent for a family of six? What about a sweet Coleman cooler? A black futon? Or a braided rug, or some Japanese lanterns? I did my best to gather everything and lay them on the fallen tent. The futon I just left off to the side, near a dumpster, for someone fresh out of one of the midwestern or southern states to fill their bachelor or studio with. The mattress too. It was a pile of someone’s life. Sitting in and alley in West LA. That’s all that was left of Big Willie Winsboro. All he had to show for his life. My eyes were wet and started dripping. It came then. Every word and puzzle in my mind dissolved into a loose flowing of letting go. Muscles were loose sinews and bones were wet chalk.  

Let it all go, man. Just let it all go.  

So, the mantra goes. 

Say it a million times a day and maybe a notch of change in you will happen. Maybe a cool breeze will come along in your favor, to cool the brow. A little less worry and little more thankfulness.   

But why let go now? Why when people have died and you’ve done nothing for them but gather their belongings? There were still questions to be answered and people to be fucked with.  

Chapter Thirteen

A Nice Letter Home to Mama.

And chill the fuck out, I did. All the way down to the bottom, again. No, not again. It can’t be again, if it’s a place you never left. It’s just a place that you exist in. A plain of being. Down there. That’s where you are. At the place where nothing exists. If nothing can exist. A notion to boggle the mind. Because that’s where it all started. At a place a human mind can’t fathom. A sleep where the subconscious knows no tales.  

This time I didn’t dream of any friends. There was no Jackie in the mud, on the side of the road. There was no one. No one there but me. And even that was something loosely based on me. An ego untethered. A braided rope, unstrung. You forget about will, in a place like that. The will to do something. Like live. Heartbeats run on their own accord.  

Eyes open involuntarily.  

Still in that corridor. But nobody else was around. Those Armenian goons weren’t lying around with you. Funny. That’s damn funny. But not funnier than the storage unit to my left being empty. The blue, plastic barrel was gone. A clean-up crew called Big Willie Winsboro.  

But why leave me? Because you’re an asshole who took a swing at him with a bat on the word of a two-bit cop.  

My head felt like a rotten watermelon. I got up, I think, and stumbled against a metal wall. It made so much noise, that I thought the police would come. But then I remembered, they don’t come down this far.  

190th and Normandie.  

I hadn’t been out that long. The sun was sitting just above the horizon. I could see it out of that window by the elevator. Looking down, I could see my truck was where I’d parked it by the cinderblock wall.  

The bed was full of Armenian goons and a blue, plastic barrel.  

I yelled, but Big Willie couldn’t hear me. He was getting behind the wheel, ready to drive that carnival of goods to clown-town. More yelling and beating on the window did no good. I hit the elevator button. It took about a month for the thing to bing and open. Another month to get down to ground level and watch my shitty, little Toyota roll out of the gate and take a left on Normandie.  

Curious. A left, on Normandie. The highway was to the right. Where was Willie going with that mess? Heading towards the heart of the Southbay. Towards an entanglement of powerlines and train tracks and warehouses galore. I thought about how I could follow him. Looking around at my surroundings. Vehicles everywhere. Big lumbering things. But there was that Mustang sitting there in front of the pop-up camper.  

I walked over and could hear, right away, snoring from inside the camper. Stepping over to the Mustang I could see the keys in the ignition. A moment of glory, some would call it. God is good, some would say.  

Some would say it was meant to be.  

I would say it was dumb luck.  

That’s where things sit, between chaos and fate.  

I got in the car. Cranked the thing up and pulled the thing into drive and shot towards the gate that was just now closing after Willie had gone through it. I braked and glanced at the rear-view mirror. The gate was motion censored. It had to close first and then re-open. The thing was slow as tar. It started creaking back on itself. Still, no one came running out of the camper. I imagined a bearded meth-head rampaging out with only his whitey-tighties on and a shotgun in both hands. But no, nothing. The gate opened enough and I flew out of there like bats do from Hades.  

Left on Normandie, and I was swerving through cars before I knew it. The Mustang’s accelerator was loose and as soon as you touched it, it surged ahead. Almost a buck every time you tapped it. Sensitive thing.  

There was nothing but big-rigs down this way. The movement of industry. Its bedrock was trucking. Works great on a highway, but on city streets it played havoc with traffic and destroyed pavement. Potholes and train tracks tore up the underbelly of the Ford. I didn’t even give two thoughts to worrying about that meth-head’s ride. Probably should have, but all I had were justifications in my head. Like, leaving your keys in the ignition, just what are you asking for dummy. For a thief to come along. And that’s all that I was. In every aspect a leech.  

My Toyota truck came up at Normandie and Carson. Stopped at a red light. I came to stop behind him and thought about honking but suppressed the urge. I looked around. Did anyone else see this pile of men in the back of my truck? If they did, they chalked it up as a thing you might see in L.A. They were filming shit all the time. You’d see all kinds of crazy shit out here. No telling what you’d see. Jurassic Park jeeps driving on the 405, Whooley-mammoths caught in tar out on Wilshire, folks wearing costumes drinking coffee out of paper cups, waiting for action to be yelled, caught in a perpetual year-around Halloween. Go into any neighborhood in Los Angeles and see the crane lights at night and watch the poets of nightfall work. Watch the people hustle for fame or art or just plain paychecks. But it’s anything goes in a city that pretends for a living. Dreams coming to life become innocuous in the minute details of the making. Bystanders become acclimated to the bizarre and the focus on one’s own life sets in.  

So, a little, red Toyota truck filled with Armenian goons and a blue, plastic barrel, deep on South Normandie gets a just a raised eyebrow and a slight frown.  

The light on Carson turned green and Willie still hadn’t looked in his rear-view. He hadn’t taken me as a thief either. We rolled through and headed towards 228th Street. Willie hit the left blinker at 228th and we cruised along that street until it ended at Avalon and took a right. Then took that to Anaheim and found ourselves in an even more twisted up, corrugate, man-shaped place near the Port of Long Beach.  

There was a landfill tucked into a little corner of a modern industrial port. Where water ways had been dug out in exact angles and concrete poured in fine, rigorous molds. Everything built for large vessels to maneuver easily and ready the spread of goods and services. Bridges had been laid over the waterways and giant, metal power-poles stretched their lines out over the port. The hairs on my neck and arms stood up. A crackling of energy moved in this place. Too much electricity. Too many moving parts. I almost missed Willie pull my truck into the landfill. He took a right onto E 1st Street, and the road flipped back on us. At this point Willie knew somebody was following him. Or someone was behind him doing the same thing he was. Getting rid of bodies. It troubled me that none of them had moved at all. They were just unconscious goons that last time he’d checked. It seemed a severe ending. Bodies left in a dump. What had Big Willie done? 

There were more RVs down here. All along the right side of the road. Older, dustier things that had come to rest in a junkyard, near a landfill. Willie took a right into a wide opening between two, low brick walls. I stopped the Mustang just before the opening, pulling over in front of a blue sign that read: Falcon Refuse Center. 

It was early morning, the sun just up, behind us. I turned the ignition off and got out of the Mustang and walked around to the entrance. Willie had stopped my truck just inside the place. I stood there looking at the red brake-lights. The smell of refuse filling my nostrils. The sound of seagulls squawking overhead. The hum of industry all around us.  

Big Willie got out of the truck and faced me. He gave me a knowing nod. Like, hey, glad you could make it. Then a head popped up in the back of the truck. And then some more stirring of bodies. The goons were coming to life.  

I found my legs moving towards the truck as the goons got out of the back, like clowns at a circus. They looked dazed and confused but aware of something I wasn’t. I got within ten feet and stopped.  

“What the fuck?” 

Willie looked at me. “Mr. Hosseini.” Was all he said.  

I looked around like a feral dog at a large metal structure; a garage or hangar, with large openings, where you could see massive piles of garbage sitting in the shade of the aluminum roofing.  

“He owns this.” I said, trying to piece anything together, but my mind was a box of missing pieces. Just when I thought I had it all figured.  

Big Willie looked at the four Armenian goons getting their bearings. “The Agassi’s do, anyway.” He pulled a gun from his jorts pocket. That Smith & Wesson MP9.  

Curious. Where had that been this whole time? In the glove box? How do you lose track of such a thing? 

Winsboro raised the gun and fired four shots. Quick. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Four shots to the head. The goons go back to being sacks of potatoes, but with neat little holes in their foreheads and gruesome blowouts in the back.  

The seagulls overhead bolted.  

I was half-crouched over and flinching, backing up. Willie put the gun down and had an indifferent look on his face. “That’s money’s Mr. Hosseini’s.” He pointed the gun at the barrel in the back of the truck. “Armenians owe that for them land deals.” He looked at me. “Them Salvis can’t have that.”  

“So why clip the goons?” I pointed at the muck of organs and bones already in decay at the back of my truck. 

Big man gave his patented shrug. “Said clean it all out.” He looked over at the goons. “Guess they don’t want no loose lips.”  

Or sinking ships. It went back to Beebe and Erik. Family emulsions. Entanglements. Untie the knots that you can and just murder the rest. The big man winked and pointed his finger like a gun at me. Then he put the real gun in the waistband at the small of his back.  

“Hosseini’s the real gangster.” I said, to anybody that would listen.  

Big Willie was nodding, like, yeah man, now you know. But he could’ve told me from the very beginning. But he didn’t. “We should get out of here.” He told me. “There’s dudes here that’ll take care of this.” He pointed to the dead men on the ground.  

“This whole thing’s about property.” I told him.  

“Same as it ever was.” Willie held the truck door open. “You trying to drive, or what?” 

“How’d Jackie get that opal?” 

The big man’s shoulders sort of slumped and he shook his head. He was tired of me. I thought we were friends. It was all just a means to an end. The culmination always having dollars in the hand.  

“We gotta go.”  

Willie would tell me on the road. That big, blue plastic barrel went in the trunk of the Mustang. With two million dollars of cash in it. Or so, I imagined. I never took a look inside, did I.  

“There’s more than two million dollars in that barrel, isn’t there?” 

Big Willie didn’t say anything for a while. He just watched the webbing of industry go by. I steered the car north, taking the 710 freeway to the 405. Willie said he’d lost track of Jackie at some point. Somewhere in Louisiana. Where we were all from. But I didn’t know them back then. Only Jackie, at the tail end. When I was leaving the damnable place. When she was leaving it too.  

But Willie and Jackie had another history.  

“Told you we was down there during Katrina.” He started. 

Down there.  

“But you met Hosseini in Israel.” I cut in, getting ahead of myself.  

“Bosnia. But that ain’t got nothing to with this. That was before.”  

“Jackie met him back then too?” 

Big Willie nodded slightly. “New Orleans was something else.” He looked sad. Palm trees passed and a brilliant blue morning started setting in. Who could be sad in a place like this? The answer, is plenty of people, Jake.  

“I heard.” My memories went back. “I lived up north. Lot of folks came up there. It was tough.”  

“You were in Bastrop.” Willie stated.  

I looked over at him in surprise. “Did I tell you that?” 

Another slight shake of the head. “Jackie mentioned it. She went up there after the flood to see about her dead wife’s grave.”  

The blood stopped pumping in my heart. Or so it seemed. At the same time, my stomach plunged downward and my testicles wailed. The freeway was a white line and that’s all I could concentrate on. A white line in the white light of morning. I tried to swallow but my throat was a broken piston.  

“She never told you that?” Willie asked.  

I just shook my head and gripped the steering wheel and hoped he didn’t see the moisture in my eyes, welling up.  

“She was a soldier too.” Willie kept going. “Well, a merc anyway. From your town. Bastrop.” Willie eyed a sign. “Take Manchester.” He told me.  

Manchester was an exit. I took it, pretty sure I knew where he wanted to go. For once. Roscoe’s. We pulled into the lot. It was eight-thirty by my phone. Willie hopped out of the bed of the truck, all spry, like he was done with the third shift, heading into the weekend. I got out and eyed the trunk.    

For some reason, at that moment, I didn’t think there was any money in it. The idea of storing money in a barrel in a storage unit in the Southbay seemed a ridiculous heap of missed opportunity. Washed money didn’t seem to be a gangster’s problem. Banks weren’t that exclusive. 

I wanted to hear more about Jackie. We sat down in a booth by a window and watched the cars on Manchester. Inglewood was alive and moving. What day was it? I looked at my phone, again. It was Sunday, and no one had bothered me yet.  

“You hear from your girl?” 

We were waiting for our food, sipping coffee and water. “Beebe?” 

“You still thinking I killed Jackie?” 

The waitress came with our food. Waffles and fried chicken and brown gravy. The smell of it wiped our minds for a split second. The waitress didn’t smile or say anything, knowing it was the food that mattered.  

“Merchant thinks so.”  

“What’d you think?” 

“Why would Merchant think so?” 

“That’s what you think?” 

I drenched the waffle in syrup and cut into it and forked a big bit into my mouth and started chewing, looking at Willie, across from me. He’d done the same thing, but had skewered some chicken and gravy as well with his waffle.  

“Me thinking has got me in this place and this time.” I held up a forked piece of chicken. “Not much to show for it.” 

“You too hard on yourself.” Willie told me.  

I scoffed up waffle and had to wipe my nose with a napkin. “I was thinking I hadn’t been that hard on myself these last few years. Thinking maybe I hadn’t pushed myself enough.” I looked Willie in the eyes. “You ever get that feeling?” 

“You can get to feeling complacent. Everyday being the same and all, out here.” He took a long sip of water. “You miss the weather in Louisiana?” 

He caught me off guard. I hadn’t thought about weather in a long time. Much less Louisiana. “Sometimes. Sometimes I miss sweating.” I smirked.  

Big Willie smiled too. “Just stepping outside is all it can take sometimes.”  

And like that, a warmth started spreading in my chest. Thinking of beads of sweat on the forehead. Cloying t-shirts and the feeling of being underwater. “Swamp-ass. I do not miss swamp-ass.”  

Laughter came rumbling out of the big man. He even showed some teeth. “I know that’s right.” He chuckled. “Give me that dry heat, any day.”  

In this tiny moment, we were friends again. All of the future moments were still up in the air. But this moment was good. “I miss the trees, though.” I pondered.  

Willie nodded and chewed his food, no doubt thinking of tall pines and moss-covered cypress trees.  

“Winsboro.” I stated, flatly.  

He looked up from his mess of gravy and waffles and fried chicken, but didn’t say anything, letting me play it out. “I been to that town. We played them in basketball.”  

“I’m from Epps.” Willie started. “I-20 goes through there. Take the exit, go south to Winsboro, north to Epps.” 

“Poverty Point.”  

“Yeah. Them Indian mounds.” He slurped some coffee. “Grew up, right down the road from em’.”  

Dirt mounds built four thousand years ago by Native Americans in that region. The Mound Builders. Some of them built in the shape of animals. One shaped like a massive bird. It was eroded now, covered in manicured grass. Awe-inspiring all the same.  

“We used to go there when I was kid.” I mused.  

“Who?” Willie asked. “You and your parents?” 

Me and my parents. Guess you could say that. “My grandparents used to take me.”  

“Your grandparents white?” Willie asked.  

Strange question. But maybe if you were wondering. Wondering about the shade of another man’s skin. It’s a thing on planet Earth. As long as we can see in color. We’ll know what sets us apart. Always.  

“They were.” Was all I felt I needed to say. 

Big Willie caught the drift. People passed away, eventually. Especially old people.  

“What about your parents?” 

“What about them?” 

“It’s like that, huh.” Willie produced a toothpick from somewhere and started poking his teeth.  

“We trying to get to know each other, now.” Thinking ploys can only get you so far. “Little late for that shit.”  

“I forgot.” Willie was on to me. “You got an aversion to friends.”  

“That what this is?” I took a long sip of water. “Me and you trying to be friends. Maybe you’re right, I don’t know much about it, but you ain’t been all that forthcoming when it comes to the openness of friendship.”  

“Guess you can hold on to hope that somebody’ll be there when you taking your last breath.”  

“Never given it much thought.”  

A car honked at another car out on Manchester. Inside, Roscoe’s was getting crowded. Arteries calling out for stoppage. “I hadn’t either, for a long time. Living one job to the next. Walking tightropes. Not really caring about shit, cause you think you bad as shit. Not really noticing how you getting through it all is because you got people next to you. Helping you through it.”  

“That’s a nice letter home to mama.”  

“Ain’t it.” Willie smirked at me, not buying the cynicism I was selling. “But my mama’s long, gone and sounds like yours is too.”  

“What’re you saying? We’re stuck with each other?” 

Big Willie chuckled and turned the toothpick over in his mouth. “You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends…” He stopped, looking at me to finish.  

“Just don’t wipe your friends on the couch.”  

“We had the same mama.” Willie held his water cup up for a toast.  

Chapter Eleven

“Cosmic Liquidity wearing a Kobe Bryant jersey”

The cops had all cleared out. Leaving behind trampled elephant ears and a commotion of dirt all over the walkway. Some dutiful officer had put up more yellow tape around the entrance to number two, but it looked hastily done, stretching between two large philodendron plants in front of the door. Here marks a murder; or a cop who got shot in the ass by a murder suspect.  

I lingered, looking at the mess that civil servants could make. The smell of jasmine floated off the fence to my left.  A white fence that had seen better days. It sagged in loping dunes and was covered in dark, green vines. It was a disconcerting mix of the senses. Such a sweet smell infiltrating all the chaos. Such was this city. A maelstrom of sweet smells and dirty bodies and pulverizing ambitions.  

The door to number three was slightly ajar and a light from inside shot a shaft out across the trampled elephant ears. I could hear the wood floors creaking inside. The woman who’d stuck her chin out to yell at the invaders was moving around in there, I thought. But why was her door open? Nosiness brought me closer to the opening and inside three people could be seen, shifting about through the crack in the doorway. The woman and two men. Two men that were familiar to me. Hosseini. And the bald guy from Pershing Square that probably killed Brenda. Agassi. 

Hosseini and Agassi were in close proximity to each other, cavorting in hushed towns, but vehemently. Agassi seemed pissed and Hosseini rubbed his neck and seemed to be trying his best to calm the man down. The woman had moved out of view. I craned my neck to find her in the opening of the door when I was reminded of the bump on my head.  

It was a thud at first. A deep thudding on the back of my head. And then another blow and pain shooting down the back of my neck. And then blackness, again.  

Another dream. You think they would’ve knocked all the subconscious out of me by now. And it was one of those that you don’t remember. But you awake with just enough to know something was being worked out. Some deep cataloguing going on. Down so deep that the ego must never be aware of its goings on.  

Voices were what brought me to the surface.  

“Think that motherfucker is dead?”  

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t fucking care. We should just leave him here. Cops be back any second now. What the fuck we even doing here? This is fucking stupid, man.”  

“If he’s dead, why we here?” 

“Why we even here, is what I’m saying?” 

“Mr. A told us to wait until he came to.”  

“That’s the story and we’re sticking to it. Cops show up again, that’s what we tell them.”  

There was no answer to that last bit. Mr. A. Agassi. My eyes seemed to be shut without me having to shut them. They felt swollen and my nose felt like a pancake. Everything bulging and out of place.  

“There it is.”  

My eyes slit open and I was sure I heard them make a noise like splintering wood. A blood-crusted cracking.  

“He awake?” 

There were two of them. Both bald-headed. You can’t have hair if you’re Armenian. Must be the case. The way you keep your membership. And tattoos. You gotta have tattoos. These two wore all black and had nine millimeters in their belts, belly-side. They looked professional. Stood straight and looked down at me like they only wanted to extract something from me and then they would kill me.  

The one on the left had a thin beard. The one on the right was clean shaven. Both had round faces. You eat well when you’re gangstered up.  

“What now? The one with the beard asked.  

The clean-shaven one took a piece of paper out of his back pocket. He had a grocery list written down. He looked at it like he had trouble reading in front of the class. He even cleared his throat.  

“Jesus Christ.” The man with no hair on his face put the piece of paper back in his pocket. “I could’ve remembered that.”  

“What?” the bearded-one asked.  

Clean-shaven shook his head. “He thinks we’re fucking morons.”  

The one with the beard only raised his eyebrows, unable to fight the accusation. “Well, what’d he want us to ask him.”  

Beard looked away from his partner and looked at me. “Where’s the stone?”  

I wasn’t sure I could even open my mouth. Someone had hit me over the head and surely kicked me in the face. My teeth felt like rubble. How to speak through a mouth full of broken rocks? 

But I managed. “What stone?” All the same.  

“Yeah, what stone?” The bearded one followed up.  

The clean-shaven one looked at his partner like they both needed new jobs far away from each other as possible. “Jesus-fucking-Christ.” He reached back to his pocket again and took the note out and looked at it and shook his head. “It doesn’t fucking say.”  

I started laughing. It hurt my face to do so, but the joy of secret-knowings nudged the pain into a corner.  

“Fucks he laughing for?” The bearded guy asked.  

Clean-shaven guy sighed and looked jittery, knowing the cops would be back any minute. Or would they? Had they tracked down Ed? And weren’t their hands full with cop-shooting Beebe? And why had Agassi left these goons to ask one question?  

I was still laughing when I puked. It was then that I realized that I was sitting on a couch in some apartment I didn’t recognize. The upchuck went all over my shirt and lap and some of the couch and rug on the floor.  

The two goons jumped back.  

“Aw man.” The clean-shaven one exclaimed.  

“Oh god–” The bearded one said before vomiting himself. All over the Persian rug they were standing on.  

“Fuck!” The other one said. “Awww, man.”  

The front door to the place flew open.  

The cops! 

No.  

Big Willie Winsboro! 

He had awoken, with a gun in his hand. It was that piece he’d taken off those Salvadoreans downtown. The bearded one was closest to the door, but he was still bent over, upchucking. Big Will kicked him in the face, and I had to grin at that. His foot made a flat, suctioning sound and the bearded one’s head snapped back in an odd manner and he fell over like sack of onions.  

Clean-shaven took a step back and went for his piece at his waist.  

But Willie’s gun was already pointed at the man, and he stepped in close and fast and put the muzzle right on the man’s nose. His next move was just as quick and smooth; reaching with his free hand taking the man’s gun from his belt and now he had two guns pointed at the man. 

I looked around, finally. The place we were in seemed to be the lady who stuck her head out and yelled at everyone. The place I’d just been peeping. Where Hosseini and Agassi were confabbing. Where’d they go with the lady, I wondered.  

“You alright?” Willed asked over a shoulder.  

At first, I didn’t think the question was addressed to me, then it slowly dawned. My head and face felt like a burden. A thing to put aside and forget about until it felt different. Or didn’t feel like it weighed six thousand pounds.  

“I’ll live.” I said, like a real tough guy.  

Big Willie kept his eyes on the clean-shaven one. The bearded one was out for the count, laying in his own vomit.  

So was I, kind of. I tried to sit up. It took me about thirty minutes, but I managed without my eyes bulging out of my head. “These two are looking for a stone.” I told Willie, sitting on the edge of the couch, feeling the wetness of my puke on my chest and lap.  

“A hot rock.” Willie grinned.  

“The police have it.” I told him. 

The big man’s head jerked slightly. “Really?” 

“I’ll tell you about it later.” And I stood up, feeling alright, but lopsided like a Mookie Betts bobble-head.  

“What about this fool?” Willie flicked the muzzle of his gun against clean-shaven’s nose.  

The bald man didn’t blink or seem to even breath. One cool customer. Known in his hood to have guns pointed at him on the regular.  

“Leave him.” I took a step towards the door. “Anything else and he’d need it written on a post-it-note.”  

Big Willie kept his gun on the man and moved towards the door with me. Clean-shaven looked at me with a tough, steel-eyed stare. The gun didn’t bother him, but my words screwed hooks into him.  

I stopped in the doorway and looked at his partner on the floor and then up at him. “Why’s your boss want that stone, so much?” 

The clean-shaven man’s lips frowned, and he shook his head, slightly and he shrugged. Just a thug. A goon with a piece of paper in his back pocket. Given a gun and will travel to the Westside from Glendale to knock some heads. A flash of empathy moved through me. A certainty of which side of the tracks we lay on might’ve tied us together in cosmic liquidity. A second only. Then it was gone with an obtuseness in both of our thoughts of the future. What now? Or whatever. Those were the only plains we lay in.  

“Make sure you clean this place up.” Willie told him, for some reason. 

“Fuck you.” Clean-shaven spit.  

Big Willie stopped. And stepped back toward the man and smashed the butt of the gun in his right-hand against the man’s nose. It made an awful wet, popping noise and the man’s eyes closed immediately and he fell to his right, like another sack of onions. I hoped the lady could use them. For a soup, maybe. 

The big man looked back at me with raised eyebrows. “You can’t leave em standing, podjo.”  

Podjo. Alright, we were partners now. But there were still secrets out there in the ether between us both.  

“You got some duds I can change into?” Looking down at the upchuck on my shirt and pants. 

He did. More oversized jorts and a Kobe Bryant jersey. The Minnesota throwback white. I didn’t have the shoes to pull it off. Then again, nobody could pull that off but the Mamba.  

There were lights on inside Cliff’s apartment. I knocked on the door. Willie and me stood there for a minute or two, waiting. I knocked again, pulling my jorts up. Nothing. The cops hadn’t come back yet. Maybe they never would. We couldn’t seem to get away from this building. A black hole. Deforming and collapsing everything we thought we knew or wanted to in the span of a lifetime.  

“They in there.” Willie said.  

“Maybe they left to go get a drink.”  

“Them men don’t drink.” He reached past me and pounded on the door. It shook the whole building, made of popsicle sticks and cotton candy.  

“Cliff drinks.” I pointed out.  

“Maybe him, but men like Hamed like to keep they minds clear. All the time. Working angles and such.” 

Hamed. “Agassi too?” I asked.  

He shrugged.  

“You know him too?” 

He shook his head. “I don’t know the man.”  

I couldn’t tell if he was lying. “That how you stop seeing angles? Too much Old Milwaukee?” 

Big Willie looked at me and a tug came into the corner of his mouth. He had both the guns in each of the large pockets of his jorts. “You ever see em?” 

“What? The angles?” I didn’t have to think about it. “No. I just jump in the lake and sink or swim.” Then I did think about it. “Or sit on the beach and watch others.”  

“Same shit.” Willie said.  

“Is it?” 

“I don’t know your life or what’s in your head.”  

“I don’t either.” I reached up and rubbed the back of my head. It felt like trying to caress a boulder. “Maybe too many licks to the head today.” I wondered what I looked like. Some creature from the muck come to knock on your door at night. 

“You been getting hit over the head every day?”  

I looked at Willie and he was smirking. I felt myself chuckle, but the roll through my chest felt far away. “Seems like it.” And the smirk turned into pain. The feeling of being able to carry on this line of innocuous man-lamenting had roots stretching back to the beginning of time. We were trapped in casual loops of DNA. Thousands of years of constructs.  

But what now? 

First things first. We had to break the black yoke of this place again. It was strange that the cops hadn’t been back. Maybe they had caught up with Ed and had their hands full with Beebe, who had the stone on her. I told Willie this.  

“Why’d you give it to her?” 

“She told me some story.” I shook my head, cobwebs brushing away. “Sounded like…” I looked Willie in the eyes. “Sounded like she was abused as a kid.”  

Big Willie shook his head. “You a sap.”  

“What?”  

“How many women you met with a story?” Big man putting emphasis on story.  

We were walking towards the alley now, squeezing between the dumpsters and a Toyota Corolla, finding ourselves in the alley once again.  

“How many women have I met that were fondled and raped as kids?” Stopping and looking at the man in the eyes again.  

They alleyway was deserted. What time was it? I checked my phone. It was still in my pocket. There were some notifications on it that I had missed. I eyed them, forgetting about the time.  

“It’s a story you hear a lot, I know.” Big Willie pulled his jorts up.  

I pulled up my jorts, thinking about pieces of rope. There was a message on my phone from Jackie’s number. It was a couple of hours old. Beebe still had her phone. Did she get something off before the cops confiscated it? 

“You keep using the word story.” I was in-between two worlds. “Makes it seem like you ain’t a believer in them.”

There was another message from a number I didn’t know. I looked up from my phone at Willie and caught him just as he was shrugging. He didn’t say anything because of some memory fidgeting in the back of his head. He was looking down at the broken concrete. Years of layered pavement, cracked and broken with potholes of all sizes. Yet, here and there green weeds stretched up through the cracks. 

“Everybody’s got they own story.” Willie finally said. “Maybe everybody’s is true, I don’t know.” He kicked some pebble around. “But if everybody’s is true. Who’s is false? Ain’t nobody telling lies out there then? You know that ain’t fucking true.” 

He could’ve been right. But I wasn’t sure what point he was arguing. And why die on that cross now? Something personal lay like a blanket over his words. I let it go and looked back to my phone.  

Going back to the message from Jackie’s phone.  

It read: “I swallowed it, don’t worry.” 

I stared at the words for too long. Long enough for Willie to wonder.  

“What?” He asked.  

I shook my head and went to the next message. The one from the unknown number, with a local prefix. It read: “Meet at Vet Park. NOW.” 

“The Vet Park.” I said out loud. 

“What?” 

“Somebody texted me. Some number I don’t know.”  

“Veteran’s Park.” Willie hooked a thumb over his shoulder, back towards Wilshire. “It’s right there.”  

“Whoever it is knows we’re close.” Putting my phone back in my pocket. “Which ain’t a good advantage.” 

“Somebody wanna meet?” Big Willie perked up.  

“It’s just a text.” I told him. “It’d be stupid to walk into something like that.” Thinking out loud. 

“What else we got to do?” 

We. Maybe sleep for one. But the big man had took a nap and now he had his second wind. “Besides we do exactly that. Walk in.”  

So, that’s what we did, we walked in to it, blind as bats and toting two guns. Well, Willie carried them most of the way, until we hit Eisenhower, and then he gave me the Glock he took off the Armenian goon.  

I took it in hand like I knew what I was doing. And maybe I did on some level. A primal sense of weaponry in hand. Just like picking up a bone or a stick. The thing fit right into my thumb and forefinger. It was made to be and extension. It was equally as calming as it was unnerving.  

We walked up San Vincente, until it turned into Bringham and took a right on Eisenhower. All the while, the park was to our right. Stout palm trees in rows. Big Willie said this was the back way in. He knew this because it was his neighborhood. The place he prowled at night. Or during the day. I wasn’t sure. He was still a mystery to me. He and Jackie’s history together bilked me.  

There was a line of tents set up along the sidewalk on Bringham, most of them with American flags strung up on the fronts of them. Veterans on the skids. L.A. was one big outdoor living space. Rents were too high. Just buy a tent and enjoy the year around weather.  

That was back on Bingham. Now we’d entered the park off of Eisenhower, through a small opening in a gate that led to a parking lot. It was three in the morning and the lot was empty. We moved across the lot, avoiding the light of the overhead lamps, sticking to the shadows until we found ourselves under those line of palm trees, on dark grass.  

We stood there for a moment and listened to crickets. The place smelled of cut grass and urine. Still, there were cars passing on Wilshire. A slight hum of some generator from one of the Veteran’s Affairs building behind us. The rows of perfectly planted palm trees rolled out like scruffy-haired sentinels in the night. A tank could hide behind the trunks of those things. Anyone or any number of people could be out there waiting. We had our guns drawn, down by our sides.  

A low whistle came out of the row of trees. It bounced off the trees in a lilting echo. A couple of shadows moved out amongst the bases of the palms. Our fingers touched triggers. A voice piped up.  

“We got guns, you got guns. Chill out homies.”  

I couldn’t place where it was coming from. Some shadow out there moved and peeled off from the rest. A band of light from the parking lot lit up a lower body and empty hands upheld.  

The man had on what looked like tan Dickies and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. His neck and head were still in darkness. “We ain’t trying to light the thing up. We just wanna talk.”  

“Who we talking to?” I asked.  

“Name’s La Pantera Rosa.”  

Laughter filled the night. All his homies having a good chuckle. Some inside joke that would hang in the night and haunt the unawares.  

“You guys a little far west, ain’t you?” Willie boomed, and the laughter died.  

The man’s hands went down in front him, his right interlocking over his left wrist. He took a step toward us. The light from the parking lot hitting his face. Black hair short, like a two-week-old buzz cut. A handle-bar mustache on his lip.  

“Look here, big dog. We ain’t in just one neighborhood. This is a big city. Lots to see. We move around as we wish.” 

“Okay, Pink Panther.” I cut in. “What’d you want? How’d you get my number?” 

No one laughed at my translation. But the man in the light smirked. “My sister gave it to me.”  

There were only two guesses. “Beebe or Edwina?” 

We could hear whispers amongst the shadows. Pantera Rosa didn’t look surprised though. “That bitch Beebe ain’t no blood of mine.” He spit in the grass, casual though, not like he was mad at a grave or something.

“You and Ed have the same dad.” I stated, throwing darts into the night.  

That seemed to get the mustachioed man’s interest. “Yeah, we both Flores.” He had his head tilted back, nose in the air, like he was trying to sniff something out about me. We were just dogs in the dust.  

“Ed and Beebe have the same mom.” I was putting it together.  

“Putas, both of em.” He spit again, this time not so casual.

“This some genealogy class.” Willie cut in. “Can’t you do this on the internet? Give your credit card away and find out how you connected to Adam and Eve.” 

Seemed a bit undercutting, but somehow it was the right thing to say. Flores the Panther smiled, showing a gold tooth. “They charge you money to find out what, we all come from Africa.”  

“What I’m saying.” Willie agreed. 

“We all got some fucking Mongolian blood.”  

“Genghis-fucking-Khan and shit.”  

Motherfuckers were friends, suddenly.  

“Neanderthal too.” I put my two cents in.  

But no one acknowledged it in a jocular manner. Willie and Flores both looked at me like I crashed their party. Flores noticing maybe I’d brought some beer though.  

“Right.” Pantera, nodding his head. “Didn’t we kill them off.”  

“Or mated with em.” Willie added, coming around.  

“Huh. Ain’t that some shit.” Flores shook his head.  

Me and Willie kind of gave each other side-long glances. Both wondering what we were doing here. Three o’clock in the morning and talking Genghis Khan and Neanderthals in our blood with Mara Salvatrucha.  

“What did Ed tell you?” Deciding to cut to the chase.  

The was rustling behind Flores. Behind the palm tree trunks there were still shadows at play. At least five men. “I got a question for you.” Flores started. “Why the fuck she getting arrested, homie?” 

“I don’t know.” I told him. “Maybe because she’s snooping around her sister’s apartment while Beebe’s outside shooting a cop in the ass.”  

Flores’ jaw tightened. “She said to find you. That you were the one that knew it all.”  

Knew it all. What did that even mean? “I get the feeling you might know more than I do.”  

“This about that fucking stone?” 

“Why’d you guys steal it?” 

Flores shook his head and let out an audible breath. “Shit was dumb luck, bro.” He seemed done with it. “Thing’s worth, what, two grand. But it put me in with the fucking Armenians, dog.”  

“What’s that mean?” I asked, like a second-grader. 

Flores scoffed. Some shadows behind him laughed out right. “If you don’t know what them motherfuckers are up to, then Ed was wrong about you.”  

“Real estate.” I said, quickly.  

“Chicken dinner.” Flores pointed a gunned-finger at me.  

“What’s your interest. How’d you get in?” 

Some of the shadows were making more noise now. Not feeling the vibe of the question. Big Willie cleared his throat. We still had our guns by our sides. We were sure that the shadows were doing likewise.  

“That’s a dumb question, and you know it.” Flores calmed them down. “We ain’t gonna put our shit out there like that. But the thing is, you double your money when you actually own the property you fucking slang on. You know what I’m saying, homie. Like legitimately holding land is the biggest gangster shit ever. Thems that own mountains and the valleys and the fucking basin, are the true motherfuckers.”  

“Hosseini.”  

Big Willie gave me the evil side-eye again.  

“Who?” Flores asked.  

Me and Willie looked at the Panther with skeptical stares. Then it dawned on me. That strip mall in the valley.  

“You been to a place out in Sherman Oaks?” I asked him.  

That kind of froze everything. Even Wilshire was sans any cars passing. The shadows behind Flores stood very still.  

“Andrea in Sherman Oaks.” Flores stated, and you could see a little pull in the corner of his mouth.  

“You in on that place in Filipinotown?” 

More stillness. We’d hit a sweet spot where Wilshire was this calm, flat lane with nothing moving on it. The palm trees were standing placid with not a hint of breeze in the air. But still metal could and cordite could be smelled.  

“What place?” Flores playing it out.  

“That place on Temple.” I told him. “That brand new place that we saw Andrea walking into.”  

“You been following motherfuckers.”  

“It’s what we do.” Willie told him.  

We were friends again. Both with pieces in our hands, in the night, with the creatures. It all felt fine. With purpose you will travel.  

Flores gave Willie a hard, cold stare. “You talk to that one. You tell her she owes us money.”  

“What’d you need from us?” I asked. “You got some points in a real-estate deal you can’t recover, what’s that to us?” 

“That’s a good question.” Flores was as cool as they come. “But Ed gave me your number for some reason. She’s thinking something, right. Something beneficial. But I’m wondering why you homies still got guns in your hands.”  

Shadow guns moved in on us. We were outnumbered and outgunned, but Big Willie didn’t seem to care. He pointed the MP9 at Flores. His boys moved in closer, all makes of pistols covering us. I still kept mine down by my side.  

“I see five not counting you.” Willie laid it out. “But all I need to do is shoot you and these motherfuckers will blow away like plastic bags.”  

Rumbles in the shadows. Dudes saying the things they say when guns are pointed. But Flores held up a hand. These are everyday things. Guns pointed in your face and all. There were solutions to be gotten too.  

“Ain’t nobody trying get shot today.” Flores told him. “Ain’t nobody afraid to die today, either.” He shrugged. “So, what’s the fucking point?” 

“You need something from us.” I blurted.  

Flores the Panther pointed his finger at me. “You need something from us.”  

“What?” 

“Answers.”  

“What answers?” Willie asked.  

“You wanna know who killed your friend?” 

Willie and me, checking peripherals again. He lowered the Smith & Wesson. Some of those shadows relaxed a bit, but not much.  

“How would you know that?” I asked. 

Flores grinned. Gold flashed and cars started rolling again on Wilshire. Birds were chirping and the scent of Jasmine floated under noses. Just for a few seconds, and then the rush of axil-grease and exhaust fumes came hovering over us.  

“You don’t know Beebe very well, do you.”  

“You saying Beebe killed Jackie?” Willie was on him.  

Flores looked at the big man. “She flashing steel in Barnsdall. That’s what the cops want her for, right? Putting holes in Erik Agassi. Or the cops like you two for that?” 

Willie and me looked full on at each other then. How did he know that shit? Cops on the payroll, maybe. They got eyes everywhere. 

 “Well, the cops got the right one for it, then.” I stated.  

A wrinkle of surprise rose on Flores’ forehead and then quickly flattened into processed information to be used later. The man sure was cool. “Beebe and Ed get arrested on the same night, huh.” He kind of lightly scoffed. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” 

“You sure Ed got caught?” I asked.  

Flores shrugged and stayed mum. Some answers the man wasn’t giving us. “You saying Beebe did Jackie, don’t mean it’s true or any kind of answer, but say it is and you got some kind of proof. What the fuck is it you exactly need from us?” 

Flores just stared at me. His way of looking surprised at a mouthy mixed-race motherfucker. “Armenians owe us money. We want you to get it for us.”  

Jaws would’ve dropped, but we had to keep our teeth grinding at the bit. “What makes you think we can do that?” I asked, full of questions.  

The Panther smirked. “You two pretty resourceful homies. Taking guns off motherfuckers in tight spaces, I here.”  

His boys from Alvarado Terrace. Wonder what kind of slap on the wrist those fellas got. Then again, I didn’t really care. Maybe I should. Maybe I should go over to Alvarado Terrace after all this was over and buy those boys some beers.  

But I knew I wouldn’t.  

“You want, I can take all them guns off your boys.” Willie piped up.  

The gallery behind Flores didn’t like that at all. In fact, I don’t think they even wanted to be under those palms in the dead of morning. Could be passed out in some chola’s arms, belly full of barbacoa and Suprema. Instead, there were here with these two goons, taking insults.  

“They in the right hands.” Flores put a hand up and his homies relaxed some. “But I wouldn’t mind you taking a few more from them Armenians.”  

“What, you ain’t got enough muscle?” I nodded toward the shadows behind him.  

“We work together now. One big happy, you see. But meanwhile they fucking us on deals. We just want what’s owed, you know what I’m sayin.”  

“You need a mediator.” I figured. 

Flores smiled without showing any teeth and nodded his index finger at me. “Ed was right.”  

I shook my head. “How much money we talking?” It was the first mention of it and we could feel the thing changing beneath our feet.  

“Two million bones.” Flores said, flatly, like it was two weeks worth of wages.  

Another look shared with Willie. This guy was shittin’ us. That was the look we both gave each other. Chains were being yanked. How else could we account for the feeling in our sphincters? That feeling of a plug being pulled from a drain.  

“Fuck you.” Willie told him.  

Nobody liked that remark but me. Flores and his shadows were in unison now. I finally pointed the gun at something in the dark. But Willie, in his contrarian way, kept his gun down by his side, making me feel all alone in this strange standoff.  

Where to start? “Two million dollars.” I started. “What’s our take?” 

“What?” Willie looked at me.  

“Ten percent.” Flores said.  

Two hundred thousand dollars. A hundred a piece, if we were being fair. But Willie was still defiant. “Fuck you.” He said again, still looking at me.  

I raised my eyebrows at him. Still with my gun pointed, I was interested in his negotiation tactics. “They just got two million, lying around.” Looking at Flores.  

“Wouldn’t that be easy.” He said. 

“If it ain’t just laying around, we want twenty percent.” Willie stated.  

Flores kind of squinted at him and a curt smile was a crescent on his face. “You want four hundred G’s.” He scoffed. “Get you off the streets, I bet.” He kind of looked over his shoulder and the shadows laughed.  

I wondered how he knew that about Willie.  

“You need us for what?” I asked. “For something you can’t do yourself. Somebody higher up won’t approve. Probably worth twenty percent, I bet.”  

The Pink Panther flowed with the logic and shrugged like it was no sweat off his balls. “Fuck it. If you can get it, you can have it.”  

The peanut gallery behind him rumbled out some rebukes. Flores just held up his hand again and the remonstrations stopped.  

“Where do we find it?” I asked.  

“That’s the hard part, ain’t it.” Flores’ nose snarled up. “Nobody deals in cash anymore. You go into a bar, a corner store, anyplace, they all dealing with iPads and fucking QR codes. Cash is queen. Zeros and ones is king.” He looked around and spit again. “But there’s some fuckers still like dealing in green.” He paused for effect. The man liking his position in life. “Shit on the streets still seem to stay the same.”  

Flores looked at Big Willie like they shared a private knowing. Something to do with rubber on concrete. Feets on the streets.  

“You talking some TV bullshit.” Willie spat. “Ain’t no money train out there.”  

This was all Greek to me.  

“Not talking about no money train.” Flores bit. “But there’s a storage shed down in Torrance ready to be fleeced.”  

“Storage shed.” I repeated. “Just got down there with some bolt-cutters.”  

The Panther raised his eyebrows and shrugged. 

“I’m saying. Send one of your boys.” I nodded at the shadows behind him.  

“They got cameras in this place.” Flores rebutted. “We don’t wanna be seen doing this, remember.”  

“Remind me again, how this gets us to Jackie’s killer?” I asked.  

Flores shrugged and shook his head. “It gets you paid, right. You can do a lot with four hundred G’s, like bail a certain person out of jail.”  

Beebe. If Flores was right about her. If she killed Jackie. “Why would she wanna kill her?” I wanted to see how much he knew. “I don’t get it. What was Jackie to her but a neighbor?” 

Flores gave me a vacant stare. “Who you fucking with?” He asked. “Who you trying to play?” His whole body tightened up. “That fucking stone. That’s what she wanted.”  

“It’s not worth anything, though.” I shook my head, trying to figure it.  

“Something to do with her and Erik.” Flores said.  

“Like what?” 

Pantera la Rosa pursed his lips. His shadows behind him were growing impatient. “That fucking thing is some old Armenian thing. Been in their family, going back to the motherland. Some shit like that.”  

He stopped and it was dead out there again on Wilshire.  

“Been in Beebe’s family too.”  

“What’d you mean?” 

“We all got different moms.” Flores looked uncomfortable for the first time. “Pops got around, know what I’m sayin.” 

We did.  

“Shit is fucked up.”  

Then he told us a weird tale.  

Chapter Ten

“Bad Times in Big Easy.”

The dude booked down the alley toward Wilshire. Toward the 7-Eleven. But I couldn’t tell if it was a dude or not, running after him/her/they, with no oxygen in my lungs. Well, it looked like a person with a dark hoodie pulled up over its head and the running gait of a roadrunner. 

I slowed my roll just before getting to the convenience store and went out wide toward a chain-linked fence that surrounded an empty lot across the alley from the 7-Eleven. Which is always strange to see in L.A., an empty lot. A parcel overgrown with tall grass amongst all this concrete. It makes you stop and wonder how it had become forgotten. How it had slipped through the cracks, so to speak. Where were the guys like Hosseini when you needed and empty lot filled? This one right under his nose too. 

There were a few cars parked in the 7-Eleven lot, but they looked like they’d been there all night. There was no one in the streets. No one walking or running up or down the sidewalks.  

I stood there a moment and took in the sleepy scene.  

No way this dude went into the 7-Eleven.  

Could’ve crossed Wilshire and ran into Brentwood. Maybe, just maybe that was a possibility. But the convenience store seemed to beckon. And I wasn’t that far behind him.  

The place was lit up like a lab. They always are. Twenty-four-seven. There was a guy hanging around the trashcan, by the entrance. He had that veteran look. One of those that shuffles down from the V.A. looking for free hot dogs and forties of O.E. Things that he could save in his beard for later. He hit me up for the things on his menu. I told him I’d see what I can do and walked in.  

There was no one behind the counter on my left. Scanning to my right, the place looked empty. Mounted screens flashed through monthly specials. The place was cool with central-air whirling through it. I stood there and perused the rack of DVDs. There was a copy of Streets of Fire on the top rack. The silhouette of Michael Pare holding a shotgun, something in the background having exploded into a ball of fire.  

Still, no one had walked out from the back to man the counter. I remained still and listened. Maybe I heard the scuff of a shoe on polished floor. Heavy breathing, possibly. I leaned to my left and peered down an aisle. Nothing. Inching over a few more feet to look down another aisle and I could see the hooded figure crouched down looking at something in the candy aisle. They’d already hit up the slurpy machine, a plastic cup with a straw on the ground.  

I said. “What the fuck?” 

They looked up, but it wasn’t a he.  

There was a roundness to the face that looked up at me from the Reese’s peanut butter cups in her hands. But her eyes had dark rings under them, and they were set back in caves it seemed, flashing a wolfish yellow. She was kneeling down with the Reese’s in one hand and a phone in the other. She nodded at me, and my phone vibrated in my pocket.  

I just stood there looking at her. Another face I knew. She nodded her head again. Her eyes went to my pocket. I blinked a few times. The whir of cooling machinery lulled us into Narnia. Music was playing overhead. What was it? Some nineties pop shit. Something about keeping it together.  

The girl raised her eyebrows and nodded her head and looked at my pant pocket again. I took my phone out of my pocket. There was message notification. From Jackie’s number. “Wassup”, it said.  

I looked up. “Hey.” I said.  

She stood up and put her phone in a pocket along the leg of her black, workout tights. She pulled the hood from her head and I could see it was Beebe. There was a stud in her nose that sparkled in the bright fluorescents.  

“What up Easy Money?” Beebe leaned over and picked up the slurpy and took a long hit off the straw.  

Easy Money. Okay. I’d bite. “You just shot a cop, Beebe.”  

She smirked and her chest moved with a mirthful scoff. She shook her head. “What else you selling, Easy?” 

I must’ve had a strange look on my face. I felt I did. Squinting my eyes trying to see what horizon she lived on. “That was you in those elephant ears, popping caps in people’s asses.” 

Beebe smiled. “Elephant ears.” She had a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.  

“Why’d you take Jackie’s phone?” Curveball.  

She looked instantly bored. She was on a train that wasn’t making that stop. I wondered where the next one would be. She was vibrating on a feral wave bending towards all out mania. But it’s too easy to a call a woman crazy. To think that she doesn’t have her own reasons. 

“Jackie Meaux.” Beebe said her name like she’s just learned it. “Sorry about your friend.” And she meant it.  

“That why you shivved your boy in the park, cause you were sorry about Jackie Meaux? 

Beebe smiled again, but her heart wasn’t in it. “My boy, huh.” She nodded. “I guess he was.”  

He was. “You getting around. But why you shooting cops? You wanna get caught?” So many questions.  

She shook her head. “I’m not trying to get caught. I’m trying to get mine.” She took another long sip of her Slurpee and we could hear sirens now. Pushing down Wilshire towards de-ja-vu. “I didn’t know that was a cop back there.”  

“Who’d you think he was?” 

Beebe looked at the Slurpee cup and made a stank face and tossed the thing down the aisle. It exploded red and grainy on the shined floor. Strawberry. Still, there was no one behind the counter. Maybe the place was automated now. Everything by touch screens. Avoid the zombies at night with new technology. The way forward is to stay as far away from each other as we can.  

“Did you kill Jackie?” I was thinking of the knife used on Erik.  

Beebe blinked. That was something. Then she pulled the gun from the small of her back. It was a Beretta Bobcat. A little black thing with a walnut handle. She didn’t point it at me right away. Just held it down by her side. Still had the Reese’s cup in her other hand.  

“Why would I kill Jackie?” She asked. 

“To get her phone.” 

That made Beebe laugh. Which made me a feel a little less like I was about to be shot. But not by much. 

“The phone wasn’t what we were looking for.” She fingered the trigger on the gun and finally tossed the Reese’s cups down.  

“You and Erik were looking for something in her safe.” I led her.  

Beebe gave me a sharp look. She seemed focused, suddenly. Her eyes crouching toward prey. 

“What’s so special about it?” 

Revolving lights went by outside. Sirens loud as can be. A couple squad cars pulled into the 7-Eleven lot. I reached to my back pocket, slow as you please, and pulled the felt bag out. Beebe blinked again. She finally pointed the gun at me.  

“You know the combination.” Beebe said.  

“It’s just a fucking marble.” I told her.  

She sort of sneered at me and looked over at the swirling lights outside. “That’s funny. I always thought the same thing, when my cock-eyed uncle came lurching in my room at night. Smelling of canned Tecate burps and Grandma’s Christmas tamales. Whispering in my ear that it’s okay, it’s family.”  

It felt like something she’d wanted to say for a long time. Something she’d had in her head, rolling around until it was perfectly sanded and ready to slip right on out. She looked back at me as two uniformed policemen entered the store.  

She kept the gun on me. “You wanna hand it over, before these peckerwoods fuck it all up for me?” 

Peckerwoods. They were both white, the cops, and they hadn’t entered in a rush or cautiously. In fact, it looked as if they were stopping for a donut and coffee. They were talking casually and making their way toward the coffee when they saw we were watching them. Beebe put the Beretta down real slow and held it close to her leg. I handed her the felt bag. It felt like the thing to do. One of the patrolmen had red cheeks and short, slicked-back, dirty-blonde hair. He stopped at the coffee and looked over at us. His partner, a short guy with olive skin and short, black hair had stopped at the counter, seemed perplexed that no one was manning the station. The one with red cheeks turned our way, a mean look on his face. He craned his neck around and saw the gun at Beebe’s side. He reacted like only a cop could react.  

Going for his gun and calling out to his partner that there were other guns in the room besides their own. And the funny thing was, they’d just stumbled upon us. They’d come in here looking for coffee and donuts. Shirking their jobs, figuring they had enough numbers amongst the calvary, who would notice if they stopped for a little pick-me-up. 

Fucking goons, is what they were.  

The one with the dark hair moved down an aisle to my right, Beebe’s left, with his firearm pointed at us. Red cheeks kept his gun on us and radioed the rest of the crew. They got the perp who shot one of their own.  

But Beebe had other plans.  

She still had the Bobcat pressed against her leg. Red Cheeks was yelling at her to put the fucking gun down. The dark haired one was silently keeping his gun pointed on us. Beebe smiled at me. Nose stud flashing. 

They were going to shoot her no matter what.  

That’s what the smile was for, I think. She’d shot a cop in the ass. He wasn’t dead, but cops seek revenge for lesser things. Don’t they? 

But there was some chatter coming from the men’s shoulders. Static and far away voices telling soldiers to stand down. Suspect to be taken unharmed. You could see the uncertainty in Red Cheeks and his partner. More so in Red Cheeks, who’s nametag I could make out now. Shannon. A proper Irish cop. With a proper freckled finger still on the trigger of his Glock 22. His head tilted towards his com, waiting for further orders, something that might tell him that his superiors were mistaken.  

She still held the gun though.  

The cop with the dark, slicked-back hair told her to put the gun on the ground. Slow. I couldn’t make out his nametag from where I was standing. I looked at Beebe. She was looking at me. I nodded.  

Beebe put the gun down on the ground, real slow-like.  

Everyone breathed surprise. It was like someone pushing the button for oxygen to be pumped back in the room. Pressure in the ears went away, leaving you with fading tones you would never hear again. Flabbergasted as well, that cops weren’t all maniacal murderers. They moved in after that and did their jobs. Probably not all that happy with the directives being handed out up on high.  

“Fucking bullshit.” Red Cheeks told his partner cuffed Beebe.  

“You heard it.” The dark-haired guy said.  

His name was Maxwell. I could see that now, on his nametag.  

“We both did.”  

“Then what?” 

“Still bullshit.” Shannon spat. “Bitch shot a cop. What’re we supposed to do?” 

Maxwell looked over at me after he’d cuffed Beebe and nodded at his partner. Red Cheeks looked over at me. “You okay?” He asked me. 

I didn’t know how to answer that. I just nodded. The room was hot and I wanted to leave. They were going to let me too.  

“Where’s the fucking guy that works here?” Maxwell asked and started to move Beebe along.  

“Motherfucker’s never around at this time of night.” Shannon noted.  

“You know they guy?” 

“Most of the time you just leave money on the counter.”  

“You leave cash on a counter with all these homeless fucks around?” Maxwell asked his partner.  

They began moving with Beebe towards the door. Leaving me behind in the aisle with all the candy bars. Just some pour simp, caught in the crossfire. And maybe I was. In over my head and finally drowning. Flotsam for them to ignore. When they made it to the doors, Beebe looked back at me. There was no sadness or regret on her face, just a knowing in her eyes. Shannon and Maxwell had her gun and the felt bag. They’d store it in evidence.  

Why had that fluttered through my head? 

She’d said something about her uncle. Christmas tamales and Mexican beer and possibly something else. What’d if have to do with the Armenians? She was giving me a signal. A way to find my footing in this maze. But I couldn’t decipher it.  

I finally moved my feet and followed the two patrolmen and Beebe outside. As I reached the door the 7-Eleven clerk walked out behind the counter with a look of confusion on his face and mayonnaise on his lips. He had one hand on his hip and the other hand out, palm up, as if to ask, what’s going on? His nametag said his name was Fahmi.  

Fahmi, Shannon and Maxwell. How would we know one another if it weren’t for these labels our companies make us wear? Our companies. They’re not ours at all.  

Big Willie Winsboro was outside chopping it up with the guy that asked for a hotdog and a forty. I immediately felt shame for forgetting the man’s order. He was the old grizzled vet, with a long, yellow beard and a litany of motherfuckers streaming through his speech. He backed the police, though, telling them they’d done a good job. He knew that girl was up to no good, as soon as he’d seen her walk in the place.  

Willie just nodded the man along as I approached the two. “Didn’t think it would go that way.” He told me.  

I didn’t say anything. The big man had changed clothes. I hadn’t noticed before, down there with Merchant. He was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and black jorts the came down below his knees. He was wearing shoes too. Some Air Jordans, circa 1988.  

“You looking spiffy.” I told him.  

He nodded. His whole essence had changed.  

Hosseini.  

“You just had that shit in your tent, ready to go.” I stated.  

“You don’t think I got a change of clothes?” 

I shrugged. “You walking around barefoot all day.”  

Willie looked at me long and hard. “Fuck you.”  

Fair enough. I walked away from him and his Vietnam-vet friend, thinking about how I didn’t understand him or his tribe and how they didn’t understand me. My lack of tribe and terrible judgements leaving me all alone and nothing to show for it. I went back the way I came. Back down the alley, thinking about Willie and Hosseini. There was a moment down there under the fig tree. Merchant had seen it. Just what was their connection? 

There was an ambulance behind Jackie’s building, still bleating a little, lights flashing up the backsides of the other apartment buildings. Paramedics had Merchant on a gurney, facedown. He had his head turned towards me. 

“Mangham!” He said, loudly enough for the paramedics to stop. “They’re saying it was Beebe Bonilla that shot me in the ass.”  

I told him it was her and tried not to look at his shot-up ass. The paramedics had put a blanket over his bottom half, thankfully.  

“What the fuck was she doing in those bushes, with her sister inside?” Merchant asked.  

“Her sister?”  

“Edwina Flores. She’s in there for what? She won’t say. Meanwhile I’m taking lead in the ass from a creep hiding in some elephant ears.”  

He seemed alright for a guy just shot in the ass. Tough hombre. Maybe I was starting to like the dude. “Edwina works at that building I was talking about; the one downtown Hosseini owns.”  

“You know her?” 

I told him about Buddy and Ed up in that jewelry tower. And then later down on the street with the MS-13 cats. Merchant had risen up on his elbows, the paramedics telling him to lie down, but ignoring them.  

“What the fuck made you go downtown?” He asked, pointedly.  

If was good question. More of a land mine set to unravel all of your intentions. All of the secret things you were coveting. Merchant was a good cop. He knew how to untie knots. Maybe you could learn something from him.  

“Yeah, what made you go downtown?” A phlegm-filled voice came floating out from under the covered parking of Jackie’s building. Larsen lurking under there, stubbing out a cigarette. A deep, coughing fit followed.  

“You smoking motherfucker?” Merchant pointing out the obvious in condemnation; not mentioning his vampire-like entrance. 

Larsen ignored him. “What made you go downtown, Mangham?” He walked out from under the overhang, scuffling between two cars, flicking a butt into the alley.  

“They know about Brenda?” A voice boomed.  

Big Willie had come down the alley, hands in his jort’s pockets, carefully avoiding potholes, walking differently in those Air Jordans. Keeping them clean. He seemed like a different dude all together.  

“Brenda Kafesian.” Larsen acknowledged. “They found her dead, shot in the back of the head in a parking garage below Pershing Square.”  

“She was a friend of mine.” Willie said, looking at me.  

She was a friend of mine was a refrain caught in both of our throats. Some kind of bond as well. His fuck you forgotten for now.  

“How’d you know her?” Merchant asked, still up on his elbows on the gurney.  

Big Willie gave him a look, as if to say, fuck off. But he didn’t say those words. He just shrugged, like he’d done all day, as if the world’s weight were nothing but a gnat.  

“Just from the streets.” He told the detective.  

“Like Hosseini?” Merchant with a karate chop to the neck.  

We could all see Willie working the angles in his head. The look on his face was just this side of cool. He looked passed Larsen, at the paramedics and patrolmen moving along the walkway of the building. Something moved above us on the fenced in patio above. Cliff creeping. Maybe another figure up there, scuffling about as well.  

Hosseini.  

Guess his neck was alright. Maybe one of the paramedics already checked him out.  

“I know the man from around here.” Big Willie got around to answering the cops. “Put a little dough in a man’s hand every now and then. He’s a nice guy.” 

A nice guy. Larsen, Merchant and I may have repeated the same three words in our heads. How much dough was put in his hands? This is how you turn on your friends. Through constant paranoia. It serves cops well. But Willie was doing his part to cause incredulity. 

“That’s what they said about Erik Agassi, too.” Larsen lied out right. 

We all looked at him as such too.  A liar. Even Merchant had a slight raise in an eyebrow. Couldn’t believe the sweat-tactic he was using at the is particular moment and this particular time.  

“I think we like Beebe for that.” Merchant said to anyone listening. “You think she thought he was a good guy.”  

Larsen’s head snapped toward his partner so fast he forgot to cough. He glared at him for a minute, blinking, working his tongue in his mouth, in search for words to say to his brother in arms.  

“All of this is active.” He finally said to Merchant. “We’re still pursuing every active lead, partner.”  

Paranoia worked both ways. 

“What’s the girl inside saying?” Merchant was moving along. Playing the thing out in front of us all.  

Larsen looked uncomfortable. I mean, more than usual. He remembered his tuberculosis and began heaving up parts of his lungs. All of us except his partner took a step back. Even the paramedics were concerned.  

Then we could hear a commotion. A lot of rustling of boots on concrete and some sharp, curt, raised voices. The movement of limbs through space. A mad rush, building off somewhere out of sight. Like a vortex pulling us in.  

“What the fuck’s going on?” Merchant asked anyone.  

Larsen lurched toward the walkway of the apartment building. A patrol officer that looked a lot like Matos came running into the alley.  

“Matos!” Merchant yelled.  

“She’s on the run!” She rushed between a parked car and two dumpsters, and passed Merchant on the stretcher, headed down the alley, intent on some kind of counter measure.  

“Wha-what the fuck?” Merchant tried getting up from the gurney. Two paramedics rushed towards him. He grimaced in pain. “Matos!”  

But she was gone, down the alley, toward Texas Ave. Larsen beelined down the walkway. I found myself following him through a passel of uniformed bodies. Larsen asking what the fuck happened. Some voice, one of the patrol officers, was complaining about not having enough eyes on her. There were at least fifteen cops in the walkway. There were other voices competing with his. Boots scuffling on concrete. You could feel a push towards Barrington.  

Larsen was yelling and hacking at folks. I caught sight of Martinez through the kitchen window. He had his thumbs tucked in his utility belt and his forehead was wrinkled. He looked around the kitchen and then looked up and we locked eyes. His eyebrows went up, like, ain’t this a circus.  

“What the fuck happened here?” Larsen managed to get the attention of one of the officers.  

His nametag read LUI and he looked about as put together as anyone could in this chaos. “I’m not quite sure, sir.” He shook his head. “There were two stationed inside with her, I don’t know what happened.” 

“Who was with her?” Larsen asked.  

Lui paused, not wanting to be the snitch. Larsen didn’t reassure him. He just stared daggers at him. “I think it was Martinez and Matos, sir.”  

Larsen coughed and looked through the kitchen window. Lui stood there and glanced my way, and then wandered off with his brethren, to kick up dirt and possibly protect and serve. Larsen turned his head towards me and frowned like he was annoyed that I’d followed him into the mire. The mire of police work. That seemed like any other job where people were just throwing things against the wall to see if they stick. It was the noodles that slid off the wall that no one ever wanted to see or deal with.  

“She can’t get far.” I told Larsen. “They’ll get her.”  

“What’d you know about her?”  

I shrugged. “Check with your partner. I told him everything.”  

“Sometimes stories change when you tell them to different people at different times. Memory is a bitch that way.” He pointed to his gurgling chest. “Tell me.”  

I told him, exactly what I told Merchant, leaving the marble out.  

“And Jackie Meaux was head of security of this building downtown?” Was the question Larsen thought pertinent here. “She had to have known Edwina, right?” 

That just got a shrug from me. But Larsen was working through something in his head. He forgot about coughing, again, and turned to face me. “Come on, let’s work this thing out.” Like we were pals, suddenly. “Edwina had to be the inside man. So, to speak.”  

“Could be Buddy was.” I told him. 

Larsen cringed like he already trusted the old Jew, making me think Larsen had some belief in the Torah. “I don’t’ know what he’s gain would be in setting up his clients like that. After a while the kickbacks wouldn’t be enough to offset the decrease in clients once the word got out, he was Shanghaiing rocks.”  

Shanghaiing. He seemed to have a good bead on the jewelry biz. I looked down at him like he was some contorted and sick worm burnt up in a house fire. Paranoia flying through my head like a dog frisbee. Should I leap up and grab it? Or get my head shot off in the process. My eyes shot up toward Cliff’s apartment. He and Hosseini up there mixing cocktails and laughing at the plebians.  

“Who you got identifying the body?” Throwing a curveball at Larsen.  

“What?” 

“Jackie Meaux’s body. Doesn’t a next to kin need to identify the body?” 

Larsen cringed again and shook his head. “I’m not sure why you’re asking.” 

“Who’s taking care of her funeral?” 

Larsen shifted his eye-glasses around. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

I’d fallen asleep not too long ago. In Jackie’s apartment. But I didn’t tell him that. Didn’t tell him about that dream of her on the side of the road. Her in a ditch, looking wild and inconsolable.  

“When’s the last time you slept?” I countered, instead.  

Larsen brushed cigarette ash off the sleeve of this tweed sportscoat. He looked hot in it, in fact, beads of sweat had popped up on his hairline. He had a thin mustache as well. A right of cop-passage maybe. He looked like Doc Holliday at the end of his days, without the quick draw, or the Val Kilmer quips.  

“So, the sister is the finger man.” Larsen sighed, and plowed ahead. “But what’s it got to do with the Armenians?” 

“Who says it does?” I almost told him about the opal. 

“Don’t fuck with me, Mangham.” Larsen growled. “This whole fucking mess is Romeo and Juliet out the wing-wang. Sooner or later coincidence is fact.”  

Cop logic. He couldn’t make accurate assumptions without all the knowledge. That opal was going to show up in police evidence soon.  

“They had a glass eye.” I told Larsen.  

He blinked at me and coughed a little. He put a dark handkerchief to his mouth. Had he been using that the whole time? “What’re you talking about, Mangham?” 

He was using my name more. There’s power in a name. Using it to sow familiarity. To get you to let your guard down. Maybe it was working. Along with a weariness from lack of sleep and just plain rest.  

“One of those robberies the Salvadoreans pulled netted them a glass eye made of opal.” I told the detective. “I think they were targeting it. Maybe all the other robberies were just a build-up to it.” I shook my head. “It’s not even worth that much.”  

“How do you know this?” Larsen wiped his mouth and put the cloth in his back pocket.  

I told him about the building downtown and its owner and everything I’d blabbed to Merchant. I didn’t think he was even aware Hosseini was upstairs, or took a fall down those stairs. I’m sure his partner would tell him.  

“How do you know about this stone?” Larsen asked.  

“It was in Jackie’s safe.”  

Incredulity waxed across Larsen’s face. His mouth lay open and his eyes seem to be trembling. “When?” Was all he could muster.  

“This morning.” I looked up at Cliff’s door and thought, was that this morning. What time was it now?  

“After or before?”  

Jackie died.  

“After.”  

“You trespassed on a crime scene.” Larsen’s mouth grew rigid around the edges. He was serious too.  

Maybe he would arrest me. The thought of sleep dampened the anxiety of going to jail again. But the man didn’t have the energy. He needed me. I’d just given him a huge information dump.  

But what now? 

“How did she get the stone?” I asked. And I could tell it was something Larsen had been thinking about, regardless of civilian protocol.  

“She worked in that building downtown.” He stated.  

I nodded. “I don’t know if she worked in it, but she saw to the security of it.”  

“Who’s got the thing now?” Larsen asked. “You have it on you?” 

Behind the detective a door opened to apartment number three. A middle-aged woman with dark hair and olive-colored skin stuck her head out and yelled at everyone. Saying this was twice in twelve hours. She was livid, raising a hand, as if to shoo all of us away. The woman had a slight middle-eastern accent.  

I stared at her a bit too long and she caught me in her snare. Maybe she thought I lived there and was the cause of all this mess. Her eyes zoomed in on me and she froze me with her rage.  

Apartment living, right.  

Larsen turned towards her and put his hands up and told the woman to calm down. Then you could hear the cacophony of other doors opening. The squeaking of hinges and movement of air in screen compressors. Other heads leaned over the walkway above. Other voices asking what was going on. Soon the officers that were left behind to secure the scene had their hands full with public relations.  

I didn’t see if Cliff or Hosseini came out. But then again, they already knew what was going on. I slipped off back to the alley as soon as eye contact was broken with the woman in number three. But wondered about her. I’d seen her a few times and Jackie had told me once, that she was someone to Hosseini. Not exactly a friend or an acquaintance. But something else.  

Big Willie was over by his tent. The paramedics had taken Merchant off in the ambulance he said. Cops went down the alley. It was kind of quiet back there now.  

“You wanna drink?” The big man asked.  

Looking around to see if he was talking to me; thinking there was no way water was under the bridge already. “What you serving?” 

He invited me inside his tent for thirty-two-ounce cans of Old Milwaukee. The inside of his abode was nicer than I would’ve imagined. Which was something I hadn’t put a lot of thought into. It was a big tent. Probably big enough for a family of five. Willie had a queen-sized mattress in there with a black futon and a massive circular, braided rug in the middle with red, yellow and blue bean-bags taking up the center. A plastic Japanese lantern hanging down from a loop at the top of the tent, lighting up the place. Incense burned on a nightstand next to the mattress.  

“Jesus Christ.” Was all I had to say as I sat down on a plastic milk-crate with a small felt-pillow as a cushion.  

“What?” The big man asked.  

Shaking my head, I said nothing. Men allow each other the space not to explain their astonishment at one another. We know the rituals and try to stick to them. But there are some of us who are still saps.  

“This is nice.” I told him.  

Big Willie nodded and handed me a beer from a red, Coleman ice-chest, filled with ice and beer and what looked like sandwich fixings and an orange juice bottle.  

“Lived in worse places.” He stated, with a bit of a forlorn frown on his face.  

“Out in the open, I presume?” 

He nodded and slurped from his Old Milwaukee.  

“How do you really know Hosseini?” I asked in a hushed town. “And Jackie?” 

Willie let out a heaving breath through his noise because his lips were pursed together so tight, they seemed to turn white. He put his beer down on the closed Coleman and reached over pulled a photo from a backpack.  

It was an old glossy thing that was produced in some long-ago red room. Back when taking pictures was an artform. Not something you clicked on your phone to entice followers. It was a picture of soldiers. Or what looked like soldiers. Men and women, mostly men, in military garb, holding assault rifles and looking bemused and tired. In it you could make out the faces of Jackie Meaux and Willie Winsboro.  

I thumbed the photo and looked at it a long time. It had the feel of being taken somewhere in Afghanistan or Iraq. Two places of the times. Where young ones go for sport of for country. But there was something else, along one edge of the frame that gave it another vibe. Maybe not the middle-east at all, but somewhere at home, where palms trees exist too. The thing a had a mercenary vibe.  

“Where is this?” I asked. 

“New Orleans.”  

Jesus Christ.  

“Katrina.”  

Big Willie didn’t so much as nod, but take a deep breath in, so as not to drown in gulping memories he usually kept at bay.  

“You guys work for Blackwater?” 

The big man motioned with widened-eyes that it was at least close to the truth. Some contracts you sign with silence rather than blood.  

“You knew Jackie before me.” I stated. A realization that plucked me out of space and time. “Of course, you did. Why else would you be doing this?” 

“She never forgot me.” Willie took a sip of beer.  

I looked at the picture one last time and handed it back to him. He looked at it long and hard. “New Orleans was bad. We’d try to stay on dry land if we could. The Quarter was the best, but walking around there was like a free-fire zone. We were supposed to be there for looting and what not. But shit, man, we did most of that ourselves.” He shook his head. “Bad times in Big Easy.”  

“You guys were in other places.”  

“We were in Bosnia and Isreal for a while.” He thought about saying more but cut himself off.  

“How’s Hosseini fit in?” 

Willie’s forehead wrinkled upward. “He an international man of mystery. We met when we were in Israel.”  

Israel. Jesus Christ on a cross. How fucking deep did this thing go? Or was is just ancillary lines intersecting. The whole world a web and let the spiders play. But it still didn’t answer the question. Willie’s answers were just loose shiftings.  

“Is he a go between?” 

“What you mean?” Willie grew interested. He looked at the beer can I hadn’t touched since taking the first sip.  

“A facilitator.”  

Willie nodded. “Something like that.”  

We could hear cars still rolling by on Wilshire. Some feet scuffs and sounds of milling about at Jackie’s building. “A fucking bag man.” I whispered. 

“THE fucking bag man.” Willie added. “The bag is his. He owns it outright.”  

“He a billionaire or something?” 

Incense smoke wafted between us. A cool, grey line drifted out like a long finger, pointing to the west. To the ocean. Go westward, young man. And find all the craven motherfuckers your heart desires. It smelled of burnt cedar.  

Willie shrugged. “I ain’t his accountant. But that building downtown ain’t cheap. The Japanese’ll tell you that much.”  

I had no idea what that meant. What did the Japanese have to do with this? I let it lay there for a second, make him think I was mulling it over. “What, they own all the real-estate down there?” Using context clues.  

The big man gave a slight nod. “Except for a few greedy Persians.”  

“What did you and Jackie have to do with it?” 

Big Willie Winsboro looked uncomfortable for once in his life. Or maybe I was just seeing him from another angle, finally. He took a long swig of Old Milwaukee. “Hatchet men, mostly. Jackie more so than me.” He looked around his tent, as if to say his efforts had lessened recently.  

“Hatchet men?”  

“Muscle, man.” He burped, and it smelled like a compost fire. “Just feet on the ground and birds on a wire.” He was drunk, maybe. Talking in riddles. “It ain’t nothing but about property, man. And you need boots and eyes to access it all.”  

“When did you bow out?” I asked him.  

A dog barked somewhere down the alley. Willie seemed to sniff the air and maybe growl. “I don’t know if it happened that way.” He started and then stopped to dredge up embarrassment. “More of slope where you can’t see the bottom till you there. But the bottom ain’t no blue lake.” He held the Old Milwaukee can up. “That’s for sure.”  

“Maybe it’s an ocean.” I smirked. 

He wasn’t buying it. Willie just looked at me like I was a dumb thing making noise on the side of the road. In a ditch.  

“More like a one of those… what’d ya call em?” Willie used his free hand to make a circle. “Fucking toilet bowl.”  

“You drunk?” 

“Are you?” 

I looked down at the beer can I’d hardly touched. I wasn’t drunk, but I felt like my mind had been stretched out on a table and pinned along the edges for observation. Observed by whom, though? Me? 

“No, but I could use some sleep.” I told the big man.  

“Mi casa es su casa.” He stated and put out his big hand to offer one of his many bean bags to sleep on.  

It was in no way inviting. Tired as I was, I still felt the pull of it all. The rush towards oblivion. Or was it discovery? The tugging back of it all. The carpet being ripped up, to see what was underneath. To find nothing but tossed-away nickels and dust and cockroaches.  

But the pull was there all the same.  

“I think I’m gonna go see what else the cops can fuck up.” I got up from the milk carton.  

Big Willie was half-asleep. Leaning to his left with his eyes half-open. “I wouldn’t trust that fool, Merchant. Ya’ll looking a little buddy-buddy. Motherfucker’s still a cop.”  

Way down deep I could understand that, but we needed help, and the sharing of information seemed to open things up. Besides, Willie had his own game to play. I just nodded and left him in his tent, to dream dreams of commodes and friendly fire.  

Chapter Six

“A Waffle and Two Wet Noodles.”

She didn’t give up any goods though. One tough Filipino chick. Holding it down in a lonely office in the Valley. So, we were back in the red Toyota, waiting to follow Andrea somewhere.  

“You text them back?”  

Them. Whoever had Jackie’s phone.  

“I did. Nothing yet.”  

“What’d you text em?” Willie said with half a glazed donut shoved in his mouth.  

To tamper down the strip-mall-blues we’d hit up the shop next door to the real-estate office. Star Donuts. There’s never a really good name for a donut shop. But every strip-mall has one, as if they knew, whoever develops that soul-sucking urban planning, that you’d need a donut just to make it through their site.  

“I told em it was the cops and they needed to give up, we had the place surrounded.”  

Big Willie shoved a bear claw into that maw he called a mouth. His lips where gleaming with glaze. “They might just buy that.” He laughed. “Coming out with they hands up. Nobody but an old lady and grocery cart out on the sidewalk.” 

The sugar had gone to his head.  

“She’s right, you know.” I nodded toward the strip mall. We were across the street, parked along the curb on Ventura. “We don’t know what the fuck we’re doing.”  

“Nobody does.” He finished another glazed and washed it down with chocolate milk. “We all just throwing shit against the wall, hoping it stick.” 

Spaghetti again. 

Men are waffles. Women are spaghetti. But Jackie was a waffle. And the two men looking through her past were just wet noodles.  

“Just like sitting here, waiting on this one to lead us somewhere.” He pulled his shirt up and wiped his mouth. “Where she gonna take us? Filipinotown for some fucking adobo.” 

“What’s your beef with her?” I was watching a man rolling tires down the sidewalk. Two at a time towards a dirty tire-shop next to the strip-mall. “Or is just Filipinos in general you don’t like?” 

Big Willie smacked his lips. I had the windows rolled down. My man was kind of ripe. But no one said anything about it. Just upturned nostrils would do. “Loyalty to your boss in a matter like this, she ain’t no friend of Jackie’s.”  

“What’s she supposed to do, two bums off the street come bumping through?” The dude was steady rolling tires on the sidewalk. “I think you got something else you need to work out.”  

The big man was side-eyeing me. Something about that bum remark wasn’t sitting well with him. An old Latino man went by, pushing an ice-cream cart, the bell ringing over the rush of traffic. The tire guy rolled used rubber around him, giving him a nod.  

“What I need to work out, huh.” He had a toothpick between two fingers, working it in a molar. “You got everything wrapped up tight and ready to go, huh. Ain’t nothing nagging in the back of yo head? I’d say I’d like to meet a motherfucker like that. Pick they brain for all the secrets to the universe.”  

“What’d you wanna know?” 

That got a smirk and half a scoff. Andrea left the office around four-thirty. She got into a champagne-colored Prius, that new-fangled mirage of a Toyota, and headed east on Ventura.  

“There’s that fucking color again.” Willie pointed out.  

We were following another car, again. Twice in one day. We weren’t’ even qualified to do this type of thing. This thing that detectives get a license for. Private investigators, right. You need a certification for this type of work. It’s impossible not to ask yourself the question a hundred times a day, just what the fuck am I doing. What the fuck am I doing tailing cars with a shoeless man named Willie? 

That Prius took us all the way down Ventura to Studio City and into that valley of squeezing mayhem. It’s a tight fit of a gorge that connects the Valley to Hollywood, and Studio City being the runoff of its industry. 

The Industry.  

That’s what they call it. Factories come in all shapes and sizes and concepts. But their gaits are all the same. Big lumbering fellas that wear cowboy hats and six-shooters and light matches off five o’clock shadows. Hollywood just happened to get the likeness right. American industries are all the same. White men swaggering.  

So, through the gorge on the 101, down into Hollywood, and yeah Willie was right, straight into Historic Filipinotown. Andrea parked her car along Temple and walked casually into a massive, new apartment complex. One of those things that takes up a whole block. A jagged thing made of glass and graphite.  

“What’s she parking on the street for?” Willie asked, as I pulled the truck along the curb on Temple.  

We were on the other side of the street, watching Andrea enter the building. Not much was going on over here on Temple Ave. It was a quiet pocket just outside downtown. A brand-new building that stuck out like a sore thumb in an old, forgotten hollow. Which made you wonder about gentrification and the sociological conundrums that come with plopping down new developments in hoods like these.  

“What’s the rent run in a place like that, you think?” Big Willie thinking the same thing.  

“In this neighborhood…” I shrugged. “What’s the walkscore, you know?” 

“The what?” 

“Nothing.”  

“What’s a fucking walkscore?” Willie really wanted to know. 

I sighed, thinking why’d I ever open my mouth. “I don’t know, it’s like a way to measure what’s in the neighborhood. Coffee shops, restaurants, bars and bookstores. Shit like that you can walk to.”  

“Huh.” The big man looked around. “Not much around here, but downtown right there. Echo Park, Dodger Stadium.”  

That’s the way it went. If you were to move into a suspect neighborhood, what cool hoods were at least near you. “You thinking about getting a place?” 

Willie looked at me like I was problematic at least. “I live in a tent in a alley. Think I got extra cash laying around to put down a deposit.” He fumed a bit. Pushed air out of his nose. “Panhandling pays well, you think.”  

“I didn’t know you panhandled.” I told him. “But I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t give up living on the westside either.”  

“I ain’t putting my hand out, motherfucker.” The man getting a little warmed up. “But you thinking I wanna live in a tent the rest of my life is troubling.” 

“You never know why folks are on the streets. Could be a choice for some.” I eyed the building, avoiding any kind of glare from the man.  

“When wouldn’t it be a choice?” Willie shifted and the whole truck moved with him. “You think one thing ain’t connected to the other. It’s all one long, string going back to the beginning, ain’t it. You here holding on to that rope, just like everyone else, hoping on hope it keeps you in good mind.” 

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it and saw in the side mirror Andrea coming out of the apartment building. I was having trouble getting my phone out of my pocket at that angle.  

“Freedom got a cost. Don’t it?” Willie was still blabbing about life on the streets. He hadn’t seen Andrea. “They selling that anyway.”  

“You see her?” 

“What?” 

I got my phone out finally, but was looking over my shoulder at Andrea getting in her car. “She’s getting in her car.”  

Big Willie turned to look over his shoulder. “She don’t live here then.”  

Maybe, maybe not, but she was on the move again and could possibly lead us to her boss. I looked down at my phone as the brake lights lit up on Andrea’s Prius. “Shit.”  

“What?” 

The phone in my hand and the Prius in the side mirror felt like the weight of the world was in-between the two things. A crafty thing for such a monstrosity. Let it go, I told myself. Let it all go.  

“Jackie’s phone wants to meet.”  

Willie looked at the phone in my hand, searching the text, moving his eyes along the words, then back to the Prius moving away, down Temple, towards downtown. “Can’t we do both?” He asked. 

I handed the phone to Willie. “Ask em, when and where.” Cranked the truck up and busted a U-turn in the middle of Temple.  

Willie knew how to text, I assumed. His big fingers having some trouble with smart-phone technology. Then the sound of the swoop came. Message sent. The Pruis up ahead was going under the 110 freeway. We puttered up behind her at a safe distance. Cruising through Hope Street and then Grand, the Prius stopping and parking under some trees in front of a tan building on our right. I pulled over and parked closer to Hill Street and watched Andrea get out of her car and climb some short steps up to that tan building. 

“What’s that building she’s going into?” I asked Willie. 

He was looking down at my phone. “What’s them three dots mean?” 

“They’re typing something.” 

“Who?” 

“What’s that building she’s going into?” 

“County board of supervisors.” Willie didn’t even look behind him to check. “Person on the other end of this is typing.” He figured it out.  

“What’s she going in there for?” I pondered.  

“They say meet em at Barnsdall Park in thirty.” Willie held up the phone.  

That’s what the text said. I blinked and looked from the phone in his hand to the rear-view, knowing that cutting bait with Andrea had to be done. “That’s what, fifteen minutes away?” 

Willie didn’t answer. He just waited for me to make a decision. Something I wasn’t very good at. My whole life a waiting game, for things and people to come to me. Not much going in that regard.  

“She may be in there awhile.” I mused.  

“She might be at that.” Big Willie almost whispered. 

“Fuck it.” I cranked the Toyota up and took a right on Hill. “What’d you think the odds are it’s our favorite couple meeting us in that park? 

“Who else would it be?” Willie didn’t know what to do with my phone. He held it like it was a stick of dynamite, not wanting to damage it.  

I grabbed it from him before it exploded in his hand. “Somebody with heavier hands.”  

“Slitting throats ain’t heavy enough for you?” Willie looked at me. 

He had a way of making you feel like every question you asked could be a dumb one after all. “Knives are for pussies.” Feeling like that was good comeback.  

“Easiest way to get stabbed, don’t pay them cowards any mind. Or think that whatever they pointing at you is some bullshit.” Willie had thumb in one of his nostrils, digging for gold.  

“Advice from a learned man of the streets, no doubt.” I didn’t bother to look at him, keeping my gaze straight ahead, turning the truck onto 1st Street and going back under the 110, and taking a right on Beaudry.  

There was a burnt pinkness in the sky now. The sun was just on the other side of some high-rises that bordered downtown. The air smelled of diesel fumes and dogshit. Big Willie Winsboro flicked his thumb out the window. One booger dart coming your way.  

“You like to point shit out like that.” He stated.  

“I’m just amazed at your acumen.”  

“My acumen?” 

“I think you’re right about most things.” I looked over at him.  

We went under the 101 and took a left onto Sunset. Traffic wasn’t too bad. Willie sighed, looking at a Burger King as we passed it. The man was hungry. Maybe hangry. But I didn’t think we had time to stop for a Whopper. Guess those donuts weren’t enough.  

“What I been right about?” He asked, in his certain timing of things. Just when you thought the convo over.  

My mind went blank as a sheer cliff cramped in on our left. Sunset Blvd was a street with many faces. It curled and cut through the city like an exacting worm. Burrowing its way from El Pueblo De Los Angeles to the Pacific Ocean, with the confidence and imagination of a creature that knows the world in which it finds itself. A secret subterranean warp in space that only a few humans ever feared to tread.  

“This whole thing you been right about.”  

“You saying anybody know anything right now is wild.” Big Willie chuckled. It sounded like a train track in the distance. “We going, right now, to meet some people that got Jackie’s phone. Maybe they slit her throat, maybe they didn’t. We don’t even know what the lady did for a living. We can’t even find her boss.” He wasn’t laughing any longer. “Ask me, we ain’t right about anything on this.”  

“It’s a little early, don’t you think, to be so hard on ourselves.”  

We took the bend at Alvarado doing fifty and bleating voices came from the crosswalks. The sky was a deep fuchsia. Cigarette smoke and piss were in the air. Also, the electric slackening of Saturday night lay like a layer of translucent fog all along Sunset.  

“We can get caught slippin on thing like this.” Willie said. 

“You have some experience?” 

“What kind you hoping for?” 

“I’ll take whatever you got.” 

Sunset turns into Hollywood Blvd if you go straight enough and then Barnsdall Park is on a corner in a flash. There’s a thin strip of a parking lot out front on the Hollywood entrance. I parked the Toyota there and took a deep breath. 

“You gotta gun?” Willie asked.  

“I don’t know. Check the glove box.”  

He did. Nothing but papers in there. Parking tickets and mechanic receipts.  

“Guess not.”  

“What now?” 

Something popped off somewhere. I flinched. Willie looked over his shoulder. Could’ve been a gunshot or a firecracker. Two more pops. No, they were gunshots. We both got out of the truck, looking up the hill of the park. There were a handful of other cars parked in the lot as we stood there listening. Someone came stumbling down a concrete stairway that led up the hill. Two people, now. A young couple probably out for a stroll. Their eyes were wide with adrenaline and unpacked flight. They saw us and beelined for a black Rav 4.  

I put my hands up and stepped toward them. “What’s going on up there?” 

The man stopped. He was a white guy with lots of dirty, messy blond hair. “Somebody’s shooting up there.” He ran towards the car. His girl already in the passenger seat.  

They were out on Hollywood Blvd by the time Willie and I were taking the stairs. We ran into more people fleeing. More wide eyes and open mouths, gleaming and puffing in the dusk. An off-white tinge in the west made it hard to see anything but movement. Barnsdall was a plateau. You went up a set of stairs on the side of hill and then at the top the thing flattened out. There was a grove of trees straight ahead. An open lawn stretching out toward a white-line on the horizon.  

Willie was huffing behind me, I thought, my own breath in my ears was all I could hear. We both paused on the plateau, sucking oxygen. The darkness in that tree grove pulling us along.  

We didn’t say anything to each other. Maybe because we were out of breath, or words would only fail us, or give us away at this point. We moved under big pine trees, slow as we could, thinking someone could be lurking in the gloom still. Someone with a gun. 

Pine needles crunched under our feet.  

Something moved at our eleven.  

“Hey!” I yelled before thinking.  

More dark movements and then nothing. It seemed to disappear down the other side of the plateau and I was running after it before thinking. I tripped over something. The toes of my right foot catching a rock or a fallen limb, and then going tumbling over in the dirt and pine needles. It took me a minute to get my bearings after rolling around. Seeing Willie standing about ten feet away, recognizing that was the direction behind me.  

“You tripping over bodies now.” He said, not asking if I was alright, and immediately feeling shame for thinking of myself before a possible dead body.  

I got up and looked behind me for phantoms going down hills. Nothing. I stepped over to what I’d tripped on. I got out my phone for the flashlight. There was a notification on the screen.  

A text that read: “Kiss him goodbye for me”. 

Laughter burst out of my mouth. Willie looked at me. I couldn’t see his expression in the dark and I was quite happy with that. Managing to get the flashlight working on my phone we looked at the body on the ground.  

“That’s him.” Willie said.  

Who was him? “Erik.” I pointed out.  

“What the fuck’s so funny?” Big Willie asked.  

The phone was still in my hand, lighting up Erik’s back. I was still laughing apparently. He was face down in the dirt and pine needles and spit-away gum. But he wasn’t dead yet. He moaned and moved a bit. I moved the flash along his shiny back. He was wearing a silver, satin jacket, with a Raiders logo embroidered on the back.  

“Jesus Christ.” I lamented. The laughter was all gone.  

“Nice jacket.” Willie said.  

“You a Raiders fan?” But Willie didn’t bother to answer.

I moved the light a long three little, neat holes. Some red had seeped out into the silver thread. Erik Agassi groaned and tried to crawl, but he had three bullets percolating somewhere in the back of his lungs.  

Police sirens bleated too far away.  

Crouching over Erik to hear whatever he was muttering, caused my legs to cramp up. He was heaving something about Beebe. Yeah, we know. She shot you in the back and then sent a love letter via text. One last blurb of love. I got closer and could smell Erik’s breath. It smelled of rotting teeth and cigarettes. He was mumbling deathly shakes but managed a word or two about jewelry. Which made no sense to me.  

“We should kick rocks.” Willie urged. “Less you want nother body on your belt.” 

Erik was gone. Just like Jackie. Two dead and nothing but footsteps and police sirens to show for it. No, information is not free. Darkness under those trees was all we had. That and a strange marble. Jewelry indeed.  

“Let’s go.” I stood up and felt light-headed and flimsy-legged and didn’t know if the world was for me anymore.